


It Keeps On Leading Me Back To You

by Highlightlover4693



Category: Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Caretaking, Drunkenness, M/M, Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-05-13 16:24:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 64,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14752277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Highlightlover4693/pseuds/Highlightlover4693
Summary: Marc's third consecutive victory's celebration gets a bit out of hand, and, of course, Valentino won't get away from it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, loves! It's been pretty hard to get inspired to write about these two, cause I'm still a bit pissed at their behavior, to be honest. But I've been craving Rosquez lately and couldn't help but write a snippet about them. Besides, we could all use a distraction on race-less weekends. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much in advance for anyone who stopped by, and as usual, don't hesitate to leave a comment if you feel like it. 
> 
> Lots of hugs for everyone out there❤

_**Circuit Bugatti of Le Mans, France** _

_**21st May, 2018** _

_**03:40 AM** _

 

The first time the short, dry, repetitive noises make it through his ears, he's convinced they are part of the senseless dream he's drown into and that he'll probably remember nothing about once he completely wakes up.

His mind is still under that foggy haze when he hears them once again, this time clearly real, a little bit more irregular, but definitely real. The rushed third time, his brain finally recognizes them as knocks, without a doubt, as the sound of knuckles hitting the metallic material the door of his motorhome is made of. They would have probably go unnoticed in the morning, swallowed by the frenetic beating of the paddock, but in the nightly thick silence the attention calls become unmistakable, sounding way louder than they normally would.

He reluctantly removes the sheets away from his body with a displeased groan as his features contort into a confused frown. He rubs his eyes quickly, trying to get away from sleep as fast as possible, a fleeting, brief glance towards the neon numbers of the clock enough to ignite his body into action. Because the only plausible reason he can think of for someone to wake him up at 3 AM is Luca. _Maybe he has dislocated his shoulder on his sleep once again?_

The though of his little brother back in pain is enough for him to put on some sweatpants and a shirt faster than he ever thought he would be able to get dressed.

He sighs loudly as he makes his way towards the door, the coldness of the floor sticking to his bare feet and traveling up through his limbs, almost making him shudder. His slender fingers curl around the doorknob, pulling decidedly to reveal the presence at the other side.

And _fuck._

He blinks repeatedly, not fully believing what he finds himself in front of. His previous theory crumbles in milliseconds when he takes in the figure looking back at him, because it isn't a member of the VR46 team, neither Pecco, Lorenzo, Franco, Andrea or any other boy of the Academy. Because there, in all his glory, is Marc Marquez himself.

Valentino's brain is blocked for a few seconds, his limbs frozen on the spot, any previous thought or scenario that would have made sense, evaporates all of a sudden and leaving nothing else behind. And for a moment the only thing his body is able to do is stare, blankly, at the younger rider.

The reigning world champion's dark eyes look back at him as directly as usual, the intensity of his gaze remaining overwhelmingly high, even though his lids hang a bit lower than usual. The blue, Michelin cap still covers his dark hair, backwards, as if he had just hopped off the podium they had " _shared_ " a few hours before.

Yeah, he wouldn't determinate "share" as the most suitable verb in this case. He knew everyone had noticed. And, to be fair, it had been pretty obvious too, that they had tried to avoid the other as much as possible, Danilo's presence as the only relief that could save him from an even more awkward, uncomfortable situation.

But now he's here.

He's fucking here and he can't dodge him anymore. And to put the cherry on top, the realization of why this is happening in the first place, hits him like a truck.

"Good night, Vale" the slurred words are just the confirmation to what he has started to suspect a few seconds ago. Clearly, the winner's celebration had gotten out of hand, and now, in the middle of the damn night, he had a pretty drunk Marc on his doorstep. _Because obviously you wouldn't do this if you were sober._ Or would he? Honestly, Valentino doesn't know a thing when it comes to the Spaniard anymore.

His first impulse is to shut the door in his face immediately. And it looks like the most logical option, to be honest. But for once in his life, he's to slow at reacting, cause before his brain is able to send the order to his arm, Marc has already taken a step forward, obviously due to his state, missing the last stage of the staircase and prompting Valentino to move out of reflex, his palms instantly making contact with the Repsol rider's shoulders. He regrets the action right away, cause of course, Marc takes it as granted permission to come inside once he has regained his balance, and the italian's muscles are still way too rigid to stop him from doing so.

He shoves the door violently, perhaps too hard, when the slam resonates all over the motorhome and becomes susceptible to be heard on the rest of the silent paddock. But he doubts he would have been able to react any other way right now. His insides finally come back to live again, the blood on his veins increasing the speed of its pumping. He can't fucking believe it.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He honestly doesn't know if he should wait for an answer, it probably wouldn't be of much help, anyway.

"I..I" the younger turns around, as if searching for a point of support, that he seems to find in the closest table, letting Valentino finally scan his criminally debauched appearance "You didn't even congratulate me.."

The words are followed by a low, quick hiccup that make Marc's features contort in a brief grimace that dissapears as soon as it has showed up.

Rage escalates up Valentino's body faster than he ever thought possible, all the energy rushing to his muscles, tensing them, any trace of sleepiness long gone now. Cause this definitely can't be happening to him. How dares him? After doing exactly the same, after ignoring him just as much, after throwing in his face his previous mistakes, after all...he still has the balls to come here and do it drunk, as if bragging about his victory even more.

The italian tries to take deep breaths, closing his eyes for a brief moment and hoping that the scene he has in front will disappear once he has opened them again. But there's no such luck. Of course not.

"Get the fuck out of my motorhome. Now" the words come out as a hiss, his jaw painfully clenched and his fingernails almost hurting the palm of his hand, pressing tightly against the skin.

It doesn't seem to affect Marc in the slightest, though. If anything, that obnoxiously perfect smile of his just widens. Valentino swallows loudly, forcing his gaze to settle at any point, but away from Marc's mouth, by all means. It always manages to distract him.

"By the way...I didn't congratulate you, either" He rests his weight in one leg, leaning further on the table and adopting a more confident pose that Vale would have thought possible, given his actual state. It seems that no matter what, Marc is simply unable to loose his grace, not even under the influence of alcohol.

"As if I cared about your praise" he snarls. Maybe he once did, but he's been putting a lot of effort in not letting himself be affected by it anymore. The spat hungs in the air for a few seconds where he gets to see, a little bit surprised, how a flash of hurt instantly crosses Marc's dark irises. And, strangely, it doesn't bring any sort of satisfaction.

"You can't ignore me forever..." the Spaniard composes himself quickly, though, and Valentino's jaw almost drops to the floor when the kid has the nerve to slide down the zipper of his leathers, as if he was in his own home. As if it was back four years ago.

"Try me" he answers back at the younger's words, deliberately ignoring any aspect or movement of the other's body. Somehow, since Argentina, where the wound has been reopened, it has become some sort of cold war, to wait and see who would crumble first. And this time, he wasn't willing to let himself be fooled. Not anymore "Luckily for both of us, I won't stay here forever"

The statement is meant to end the discussion, to prompt Marc to leave, but this time he's really taken aback by the way the Spaniard's expression changes. He sees his eyelids execute rapid movements, as if taking in the italian's words and comprehending their meaning. His features rearrange from tipsy playfulness to a troubled frown.

Valentino is waiting to finally see him heading towards the door, not disturbing his mental peace even further. He should have ignored the knocks. How he wished he hadn't even heard them.

"I..." Marc has fixated his gaze on the floor, Valentino not longer able to tell if the suddenly apparent instability of the Honda rider's body is provoked by the alcohol or by their argument. He wonders if it's shattering Marc as much as it is internally shattering him "You..."

The words seem to be getting stuck on the younger's throat, the movement of the muscles there perfectly visible and it looks extremely foreign on him, in complete discordance with his previous careless facade, teasing grin and backwards cap. For the first time this night, he truly looks lost for words.

But if Valentino had thought that this encounter couldn't get even worse, the universe seems to be cruelly mocking him right back, proving him wrong, once again. Within the blink of an eye, Marc disappears from his range of vision, bolting towards the bathroom. And the italian is already cursing profusely before the first round of retching can be even heard.

He rushes behind him, indignation flowing every bit of his system. Because he can no longer believe he's truly living this moment. But he, in fact, is, cause he really has the world champion painfully getting rid of all the content from his stomach, kneeling in the cold floor of his bathroom.

Valentino doesn't know what impulses him to react, wether it's pure instinct or the long-forgotten, deep down buried affection he used to feel towards Marc. But clearly, one of them resurfaces overwhelmingly fast and with might, his body instantly acting without his permission. He quickly removes the cap from the Repsol rider's head, throwing it on top of the nearest available surface. He lets his hands under the water tap for a few seconds, letting the freezing cold string of water soak his palm before burying his fingers in Marc's damp hair and scalp, massaging softly, trying to ease the violent shakes of the younger's body as a new string of curses rolls off his tongue.

After a fair amount of time, the spewing out seems to be over, leaving the previously confident rider panting heavily, still crouched by the toilet and comprehensively exhausted.

But Vale isn't doing much better, to be honest. He keeps his sharp gaze fixed on Marc, or what he can see of him, at least, his breathing rhythm slightly worked up, too. The younger's shoulders go up and down, following the compass of his accelerated, irregular gasping.

Valentino rubs the inner corners of his eyes, a disturbing headache starting to form while his knees begin to protest from the uncomfortable position he has kept himself in.

_If anyone saw us right now..._

"You d-don't mean that..." Marc's raspy but unusually low voice suddenly wakes him up from his momentary stagnation.

Valentino blinks. One, two, three times, rummaging inside his memory for the last thing he said, for something that can give sense to Marc's words. But the only answer he finds it the comment about is future. But, why the fuck would that worry the Spaniard? He's pretty sure his departure will be a relief for him. _Wouldn't it?_

He's about to retort, to settle that he's no longer willing to take in more shit. Marc's statements of this past weeks, his praising towards Dani, Jorge and Andrea for their behavior after Jerez's incident, his affirmation of Zarco being the number one rider of Yamaha...have affected and pissed him off way more than he's willing to admit, proving that the younger's recognition is something that he appreciated more than he had initially thought. And it's frustrating him to no end.

But when Marc finally rises his head up and looks back at him, the mean reply dies on his throat, because his eyes are surprisingly moist, holding a bunch of emotions that leaves Valentino absolutely speechless, the air knocked out of his chest at once, emphasised even more by the flushed cheeks, tousled hair and lost expression.

He doesn't think he has ever seen him as vulnerable as now, this awfully young.

Valentino feels his muscles stirring, almost shaking, yearning for some kind of movement, as a mixture of feelings he couldn't be able to describe, out of the blue, hits him in tidal waves. And it becomes completely irrepressible the moment Marc collapses down in the little space between the toilet and the wall, his back against it, looking completely helpless.

"I-I'm so s-sorry, Vale..." his usually cheerful voice breaks down, his previous tipsy slurring painfully swapping to an anxious, laboured breathing, his eyes gaining a heartbreaking rosy tone and just like that, without thinking, the italian reaches forward, attracting the shattered rider to him, Marc's face burying immediately on the crook of his neck "Va-ale, I..."

"Shut up" he lets out through gritted teeth, the order barely making it through the narrow channel his throat has become. Right know, his brain is only a chaotic mess of contradictions and senseless thoughts. Completely useless, unable to rule his body. He wants to believe that's the only reason that has pushed him to hug Marc, now "Shut the fuck up and take deep breaths, match them to mine"

Valentino goes for one of those stress-relief breathing exercises that he should definitely apply more to his daily routine, filling his lungs with oxygen and counting some seconds before letting it go. He tries for the most steady rhythm he can manage at the moment, feeling that, in the end, it's starting to calm him down too.

He listens attentively the speed of Marc's exhales, glad that it's finally decreasing. He doesn't know how or why it happens, but he finds his own hand buried on the soft strands of the younger's sweaty hair, caressing criminally tenderly. _It's just to tame the beast_ , he wants to believe. The last thing he or Marc need right now is an anxiety attack.

He listens to the partial silence that surrounds them, as the situation sinks in. He wouldn't be surprised if he woke up now and discovered that it all has been made up by his imagination, given the surrealism of it all.

But no.

It isn't. Definitely not. Still, he wouldn't have pictured this happening in a million years. It's simply crazy.

The italian huffs, wondering which should be the next logical step. As if there was anything logical going on here tonight. He clears his throat, willing his own thumb to stop the shooting circles it has been absently rubbing on Marc's neck. It's enough.

Plucking up the courage he needs to do so, he finally allows himself to gently push the other away and look at him in the face. But now, the Repsol rider seems to be the one avoiding his gaze. Valentino takes a hold of his sharp jaw, without hesitation, prompting him to glance up.

_Don't you dare acting like a coward now, cause you're definitely not one._

And he's proved right when, finally, Marc meets his eyes, precisely what they have been trying to avoid so bad back on that podium.

It seems that the previous drunkenness has left along with whatever the Spaniard had eaten today, now his orbs only reflect guilt, as if being wordlessly scolded by Valentino's severe look. But the italian definitely can't deny the shiver that shooks his nerves, cause he didn't thought he and the younger would get to be this proximate, physically speaking, ever again. And he must admit too, that their connection hasn't lost a bit of its nerve-wrecking intensity.

Fortunately, Valentino's common sense finally manages to resurface, though, willing his limbs to move. He breaks the eye contact to push Marc up, back on his feet and guide him towards the sink. The Honda rider gets the clue instantly and rinses his mouth several times while the italian observes every single move on the mirror.

"I-I s-should go" Marc's rough voice mutters lowly as he dries his face with the towel. But Valentino can only snort out loud.

"If you think I'm letting you go like this you're even crazier than I thought" it gets out bitterly, but his authentic intentions aren't. Far from that, actually provoking the champion's eyes to widen, his lips parting slowly, giving away that he hadn't seen that one coming. Well, he hadn't planned anything of the sort, either and here they are.

But Valentino is convinced that he would be completely unable to sleep in peace after this. No way he's letting Marc go in this condition. He's not that careless. He doesn't hate him that much,  _if anything at all_ , his brain supplies. Yeah, he must be pretty tired to think straight.

Without further thought and not even waiting for an answer from the younger, which he would have ignored, anyway, he gets him out of the heavy, uncomfortable leathers, forcing himself to avoid staring at any part of Marc's body. Not anymore. Things are already complicated enough as they are.

Against all odds, nonetheless, the younger's ability to resist and retort seems to be completely gone and he simply lets himself be guided towards the couch, not meeting the italian's gaze more than necessary. Once Valentino has made sure he's settled there, he slowly paces towards the fridge, fetching a bottle of water for Marc, he'll definitely need it once he wakes up.

The heat of his fingertips takes away the freezing, almost opaque coat that covers the plastic surface as a nervous chill reaches every single one of his nerve-endings. It will definitely be interesting, the moment Marc opens his eyes. Valentino isn't sure wether he prefers the Spaniard remembering this night or not recalling it all. Probably doesn't matter. It will be awkward either way.

He clears his dry throat, finding this moment strangely uncomfortable, as well. What is he supposed to say now? Wish him sweet dreams? He almost snarls sourly at that.

But the moment he leaves the water container on the coffee table and turns around, any previous attempt of communication fails spectacularly for the second time that night.

The scene he finds himself in front of silences any possible never spoken words, cause it had been so, so long, since the last time he had seen Marc asleep.

Nostalgia hits him hard, and out of nowhere. Is only another statement of how much things have changed; how much a sight that four years ago had ended up being so familiar, can affect him now. Marc's features rest peacefully, any other expression but smiles or focus completely strange on him. Strange, but completely _breathtaking_.

Cause no matter how many times they fall apart. Their arguments only obligue the italian to bury those kind of thoughts deeper, but they don't dissapear, and in the end, he has never ceased to think of him as stunning, in every sense of the word.

Valentino doesn't want to, really doesn't. But in the end the resistance turns futile and weak, the vision too pretty to be ignored. His face lowers itself, and he's only aware that he has kissed Marc's temple once it is already done. _Guess habits don't die easily, after all._

_If we were back on that season, you would be sleeping on my bed, with me. If we were back on that season I wouldn't hesitate to look after you. If we were back on that season I would be yearning for the morning to come, to have breakfast with you. If we were back then, I wouldn't be so afraid of the things you are able to awake on me._

_If only time hadn't run out for us._

Finally, Valentino manages to make it back to his bed, but it seems that sleep is executing a premeditated plan to avoid him for the rest of the night.

 

 ~*~

 

He hasn't gotten out of bed this early in ages. If his mom, Luca or Uccio saw him right now, they would probably ask if he's ill. And maybe he is, after all. Maybe he is.

The sun must be about to rise, the sky, barely visible through the small windows, is starting to acquire a really pale blue tone.

He can't stay sprawled on the mattress any longer, after nearly three whole hours where he has gotten stuck between sleep and consciousness, with his mind spinning and revolving around all kind of memories and confusing thoughts, and all of them involving the last person he wants to think about. And that is pretty much fast asleep on his couch, a few meters away from him.

Valentino splashes cold water on his face, the space of the bathroom making the events from last night resurface on his memory and of course, provoking a shiver to run through his limbs. Cause now that he recalls it with perspective, the hug they shared on that cold floor seems overwhelmingly intimate now.

Shaking his head, he rubs a clean towel all over his wet features, mightly, as if cleaning his face would help clearing up his thoughts, as well.

He slowly walks towards the kitchen area, carefully quiet, flooded with a wave of relief that he shouldn't have felt when he checks that, in fact, there's still a figure curled on the couch under a dark blanket he had sprayed out over him a few hours ago.

Not wanting the image to engrave on his mind even more, he resumes his pacing, thankful for the cooling feeling of the floor tiles under his feet.

He sets the machine for some coffee, the pleasing smell having a calming effect over his system. Plus, he's pretty sure he will really need the caffeine today, if the low amount of hours he had had of sleep are anything to go by. Glad he only has to take a plane this afternoon. If the test had taken place this very day he's convinced he couldn't even have supported himself on top of the bike.

He's pouring the dark, steamy liquid on a mug when he hears a little noise behind him that he definitely didn't make. He has tried to prepare himself for this moment during the whole night, rehearsing mentally the correct, less compromising way to act. But when he turns around to the sound of steps, he understands that there is no way he could ever be prepared for this kind of scenario.

Marc stands at the other side of the narrow, little isle. He's in just his underwear and black shirt, as the italian left him last night. His hair remains tousled in a way that, still, flatters him insanely as the young rider rubs his eyes with his knuckles, looking for a moment like the innocent teenager Valentino knows he no longer is.

"Hey..." the Spaniard is the first one to talk, his voice sounding hoarse due to the lack of use, his dark eyes swimming from one point to another, not fully focusing on anything "C-can I...you know, use the bathroom?

The Yamaha rider tries for his most indifferent, blank expression as he nods, granting him permission with a shake of his head.

With the quiet thud of the door closing, Valentino allows himself to lean on the countertop, the back of his head gently contacting with one of the cabinets, no clue at all of how he's supposed to handle this.

He takes one sip from his coffee, the burning sensation down his throat something he's extremely grateful for. It activates him, makes everything on his body work a little bit better. He can use that right now. Definitely.

A bunch of minutes later, that felt way longer, Vale hears the door of the bathroom being opened again, the faint sound of the flushed toilet in the background. He immediately turns his back to him, busying himself by stirring the content of his mug with a teaspoon, the clinging of the metal against the ceramic strangely calming.

"Feeling better?" They are just two words, but the effort it takes to get them out seems insurmountable.

He hears a little cough behind him, his listening ability stretching its reach to the maximum. Because if he had learned something this past months, it's that he can only keep a level head when it comes to Marc if he doesn't look at him directly.

"Yeah...You know, I didn't mean to..."

"Get sick on me?" Valentino completes, and he's surprised at the resentment present in his own tone. The worst thing, though, is that he has discovered that he's not mad at Marc. He's pissed at himself, at his own behavior and at the world. _Cause taking care of you shouldn't have become a "must not"._

"Yes. That definitely was way over the limit" he must admit that the firmness of the Spaniard's voice is worth admiring. After such a night he would be absolutely wasted. Well, he already is and wasn't even the drunk one. Guess age starts to make a difference at one point.

"It was" he agrees, cause in the end, it was, given the current situation their relationship is stucked in. Silence settles between for a few seconds, only broken by the sound of the coffee machine, still on.

His ears register the sound of a couple of steps taken, something he would have completely missed if his hearing sense wasn't so alert, the quiet noise Marc's bare feet cause almost imperceptible.

Nonetheless, he wills his muscles to stay still. Not to give in.

"Valentino" the sound of his full name rolling off Marc's tongue sends a shiver all over his body, forcing his limbs to become even more stiff. He almost never personally adressed him like that, only when he mentioned him to someone else. He has always remained as Vale, regardless of anything else. _Another point to add to the list of things that keep on getting weirder between us_ "Will you fucking look at me, please?"

This time, the unexpected, but evidently exasperated request completely freezes him over. He needs a few seconds to recompose himself and settle the coldest expression he can on his blue eyes, finally rising them from the swirls of smoke that leave the coffee's surface, twisting around and eventually meeting Marc's gaze.

For a moment, the younger seems taken aback at the sight of his petition being answered. Still, is the most serious look he has ever seen on Marc. Valentino stares at him attentively, even following with his eyes the movement of his neck's tendons when he swallows.

"I'm really sorry for what I did... I shouldn't have compromised you like that" his voice cracks just a little bit at the end, his sharp cheekbones slowly coating with a pinky shade probably out of shame, but his dark chocolate eyes keep themselves fully fixated on him, almost boring into the italian's skin.

He contemplates over the words, analyzing the amount of sincerity they behold. And they are, pretty sincere, in fact, and somehow, Valentino glimpses that Marc might not be only apologising for the events of a few hours ago.

"And thank you...for looking after me" this time it sounds even more strained, emotions that the italian is slowly starting to comprehend, accumulating on the younger's eyes, making Vale's throat feel tighter than usual.

Still, his pride holds him back from articulating more than a single nod, that at the same time, hopes is enough. And as always, though, Marc's ability to comprehend his wordlessly expressed intentions seems intact. It's incredible, he thinks, that they still can share that kind of speechless understanding.

"I should go" the Spaniard announces after a few seconds, apparently giving up on getting another kind of response out of Vale, who simply watches him wander around the living room area, as if looking for something.

"Must I remind you that you came here just on your leathers? If you're actually looking for clothes, know that you're not going to find any" he ends up saying, drinking the remaining coffee in one single gulp.

The older rider almost smirks at Marc's sudden expression of bewilderment, as he puts the empty mug down on the sink.

_I can't fucking believe I'm doing this._

"Wait here, I'll bring...something for you to wear" he makes an effort to sound as nonchalant as possible, crossing the living room in a couple of steps before Marc can articulate any kind of protest or express his increasing level of disbelief. But yeah, he's not that cruel, after all, and those leathers are far too wrecked to be worn again.

His fingers move the hangers resolutely, trying to pick a couple pieces of clothing, without giving it too much importance. It's not a big deal. _It isn't._

 _We used to do this pretty often_. He violently shakes his head. Now is definitely not the right moment for those sort of memories. _If only I hadn't get rid of everything that reminded me of you._

Vale finds Marc sitting on the armrest of the couch when he's back, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his inner shirt. He's glad, that he's not the only one feeling anxious about this situation.

He hands him the most neutral sweatpants and hoodie he has been able to find. And no, he definitely hadn't felt a wave of vibrations shaking his veins when their fingers make contact by accident. He retrieves his hand as fast as possible, as if he has been burned. He almost regrets the exaggerated movement the moment it is done, but he really doesn't need anymore distractions neither confusing signals. He has already suffered enough because of this. Because of _him._

But what completely unsettles him right now, though, is the way Marc is staring at him. It's a pretty familiar glance. Or it used to be, at least. Intensity mixed with a spark of wonder impossible to ignore. He didn't thought he would ever look at him like that ever again. God, he looks even younger than usual, this morning. Painfully so.

"Thank you" he barely hears him mutter under his breath, so far from the Spaniard's usual speaking volume while his eyes swap from unblinking staring to furtive glances, as if he didn't know the correct way to act and was going for a bit of both.

Not even bothering on hiding himself in the bathroom to get changed, Marc slides the clothes over that body easily, fluidly.

Valentino doesn't want to admit it straight away that this is all dangerously bringing him back in time. The worst part, on the other side, is that it is making him realize, against his will, how important the Honda rider was once for him. And still is.

For the first time since that awful day in Malaysia, he's allowing himself to _miss_ Marc. And it feels like a disease that had finally been released after ages of contention. And he can't allow it to get the better of him. His walls have taken such a long time to build that he's definitely not willing to throw it all away because of a look from those warm eyes. _Pretty as they are._

"This changes nothing between us" he voices in a deliberately monotonous tone, throwing his shoulders back as his spine straightens, this time trying to convey his seriousness through his posture "Hope you know that"

Marc's head jolts up like a spring, and to Valentino's further suffering, his expression hasn't lost a bit of its emotion.

With that being said and extremely motivated to avoid another awkward round of events (and because the less he stares at Marc wearing one of his hoodies, the easiest it will become to stay sane) Valentino heades back to the kitchen. _You know where the door is_. He simply hopes the Spaniard is keen enough to get the clue. And he is, he admits when he hears the sound of the doorknob being twisted. Of course he is.

But if he thougt he would get away like that, he's terribly wrong.

"Vale" _Damn_. Marc's voice has regained it's normal, characteristic dimension, and as he hears the nickname, he can't deny the pleasing shivers that makes his flesh stand. As if for a fleeting instant, everything in the world seems right again.

He definitely shouldn't have, but in the end, he can't help but turn around, fixing all his attention on Marc one last time.

"What?" He asks as flatly as he manages.

 And then, out of nowhere, Marc's lips split in one of those gorgeous smiles of his, disarming the italian within seconds.

"Congratulations on your podium. You deserved it" and it sounds so sincere, so awfully sincere that for a split second he really doesn't know how to respond.

With that, the Honda rider looks decided to leave, apparently not even waiting for a reply. But Valentino isn't willing to leave it like that.

"Marc" the name gets out before he's able to stop his own vocal chords. His fingers jump automatically to anxiously twist his earring in between them, an habit that had ended up becoming a nervous tic over the years. He desperately looks for something to say, trying to not be affected by the expectant expression on the boy's face, thay shockingly, actually manages to relax Valentino and the searched answer comes effortlessly and by itself, rescuing the conversation that should have taken place on the cold podium "You too"

He almost grimaces at the short reply. _Really, Rossi? This is the best you can do?_

But fortunately, it seems to be enough, cause when their gazes lock once again, and for the first time since Argentina, they allow themselves to show a genuine sparkle on them.

"See you in Mugello" Marc whispers softly, accompanying the phrase with a swift nod, before sliding his tongue over his lips, as he usually tends to do, an action that every single time manages to make Valentino's traitorous heart skip a beat.

The sound of the door being closed brings the italian back to reality, the first rays of sun sneaking between the curtains, invading the space with previously lacking cozinnes.

_Now that really happened._

He sighs heavily, still a bit reluctant to believe that it wasn't product of his imagination.

Nonetheless, the hint of a smile threatens the corners of his mouth, and he, all of a sudden, shouldn't feel this light headed. Definitely not.

But the truth is that the perspective of sitting down and talking, just the two of them, doesn't seem that far, neither improbable anymore. If anything, the prospect looks more appealing than ever.


	2. Chapter 2

  
In.

 

Out.

 

In. Out. Inhale. Exhale.

He forces himself to concentrate on managing a steady rhythm, although at the moment, the task looks nearly impossible. Unreachable. Pointless. The air seems to get in and leave his lungs at its own accord.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

His panting echoes on the bathroom walls, right now way too suffocating. Droplets of cold, freezing water slide down the tip of his nose, eyelids, chin, and neck, making their way over his burning skin. But the contrast of temperature doesn't have the desired effect. He still feels about to pass out, anxiety threatening to take over his body.

Exhale.

He barely registers the contast buzzing of the still open water tap in front of his face, the colorless string  losing itself from sight down the sink. He slowly raises one of his hands towards it, his trembling fingers successfully pushing it down after a few vain tries. The background sound the water had been providing coming to halt all of a sudden.

He swallows thickly, his throat annoyingly dry. He should drink something. Yeah, he should and he would if only he wasn't pretty sure that he would positively throw up too the moment something made contact with his tongue.

Inhale.

He rests his palms at each side of the sink, his head still hanging down. The cotton fabric of his shirt clings to his damp, sweaty skin, as if it was getting tighter and tighter, almost constricting. He counts five seconds until the feeling becomes seriously unnerving. He forcefully tugs at the hem, shedding it from his body. He doesn't know where it lands, presumably on the floor.

Exhale.

His dark eyes keep themselves fixed in the porcelain of the washbasin while his hands, still slightly shaky, blindly reach for the towel that has been there, in that exact location, by the mirror, for as long as he is able to remember.

He brings the towel to his face, more to hide himself into it than to actually dry his features. He keeps his eyes closed and listens carefully, the rest of the house in complete silence, surely every single room lacking illumination, all the lights likely to be off. He doesn't have to check to know for sure. It must be three or four in the morning. As usual. It's not the first time it happens, probably won't be the last.

Inhale. Exhale.

With one last deep breath his lungs finally seems to regain their normal rhythm, his own panting no longer audible.

He hangs the towel back on its place. His mom will for sure scold him if tomorrow she doesn't find it where she had carefully folded it. He nearly smiles despite himself, he doesn't think he'll ever get old enough to stop fearing their mother's temper.

He momentarily wonders if he'll be able to keep everything that neat once he is living by his own, in his new house, where his parents will no longer be there to look after it. He can't decide if it will be a good or a bad thing. Probably not as good as he thought it would be ten years ago.

The mental image of his fifteen years old self is enough to actually remind him why in the first place, he's standing in the cold tiles of the bathroom at dawn. Those dreams. Those stupid fucking dreams.

 _Memories_ , he corrects himself. Because the scenes that have been disturbing his sleep lately have definitely not been created by his imagination. They are recollections. Tonight's one has been specially unsettling, full of "firsts". First ciao, first smile, first glance, first words, first advice, first touch.

He shakes his head, finding the bathroom again strangely narrow all of a sudden and he finally decides to head towards the hallway, to get moving. Find a distraction. Anything.

It's dark on his way down the stairs, and he would have probably tripped over something if he didn't know the ground he was walking by heart, the location of every object, obstacle and piece of furniture.

It feels good to be here. It feels good to spend some time at home. Truly at home. There's probably no other place in the world he feels more sheltered in than in between these walls. Almost makes him feel like a kid again. 

The window of the kitchen it's open, he notices once he gets to his destination, letting in the warm summer breeze while the faint light of the moon makes the wooden cabinets acquire a pale glow. He's grateful for both the slight currents of air and the natural light. It's helping to cool his overheated skin down.

The coldness the refrigerator emanates when he opens it is also very welcome. He would spend half an hour in front of it, with the door wide open, if he could. In the end, he simply fetches the wanted bottle of water with a heavy sigh.

He would like to go for something stronger like coffee, tea or even alcohol, anything that could take his mind from where it was currently stuck. Well, more accurately, who it was currently stuck with. But he ends up sticking to the healthiest option. Although he'll probably regret it later.

He streches to get a glass from one of the shelves, pouring the water into it as soon as it clinks against the counter, thirst becoming unbearable despite his still revolted stomach.

That's how he ends up sitting at the kitchen table at the crack of dawn, sipping a glass of freezing water but with his mind still racing at miles per hour. He can't help the ironic smirk, he can't get away from it even on vacation.

He really doesn't have the slightest clue of why is he recalling all of this now, precisely when the situation between them is colder than ever, for obvious reasons. He truly can't understand why are all those moments he carefully treasures on his memory are assaulting his dreams this brutally now. Is insane.

Perhaps because now it seems more impossible, farther than ever.

He closes his eyes, forcing those thoughts away. No he can't think of him like that, not anymore. In fact, he should have never thought of him like that. Should have never craved him _that way_.

He can't.

But when a traitorous flash of his dream projects against his closed eyelids, the resistance becomes futile. Quick glimpses of Yamaha's box in Montmeló, 2008, nerves at the verge of snapping and his fifteen years old heart about to collapse. Because he was finally going to meet him. And when he does, he's absolutely, embarrassingly speechless. The twinkle from those blue eyes, bluer than he had expected, and that smile, directed at him were enough to make his knees go weak. He promised himself to remember every single word, every single detail of that moment, to store it in his mind like the richness it was.

Two nights ago it had been fragments of that 2014 summer, the scorching but wonderful day he spent in the Ranch. And a week ago, he had woken up like today, panting and sweating in his hotel room by the beach, on his fucking holidays, but with images of himself, hitting Valentino's bike, seeing him falling to the grass, that shitty day in Argentina, replaying inside his head over and over again.

He remembers how much it had irked him back then, specially because of the moment. His stupid mind couldn't even keep it away on vacation, where he had been surrounded by friends, plenty of distractions and the usual kind of people who were eager and willing to spend a night with him. Nights that couldn't be more useless and meaningless, making him feel like an utter jerk afterwards.

He lets out and exasperated sigh while his face sinks into the palms of his hands, his elbows hitting the table painfully hard. He had almost gotten over it. After Argentina he had promised himself to finally let the matter go and disentangle himself, emotionally speaking, from the whole issue. But then, his stupid, drunk self had to fuck it all up in Le Mans, going to his fucking motorhome and screwing the walls he had fought so hard to rise when around the Italian. And where had it lead him? To drown his sorrows in water at ungodly hours, of course.

He involuntarily swears under his breath, cursing his own naivety and absurd hope. He simply looked after him because he was drunk and the Italian is actually not that heartless. As simple as that. There was nothing hidden behind his actions, not a single amount of interest, that had pretty much been established the moment he had appeared in Mugello with _her_. What honestly felt like a raw slap coming out of nowhere. He should have imagined. He should have wrapped his head around it already.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, his fingers slowly drawing a circular pattern on the inner corners of his eyes, willing the memories of that awful weekend to disappear. Willing his own, most sincere thoughts to go away.

No matter how hard he tries to convince himself that he doesn't care. He was _someone else's_ now and Marc couldn't help but wonder if it would ever stop hurting.

And to put the cherry on top, the following podiums have been nothing but a confirmation that right now, he's pretty much the only rider in the grid he's not on speaking terms with. Even Jorge had apparently earned his way out of the italian's resentment zone. He's wondered also, more than once, if this is the prize he's paying for those couple of years, when everything was easy between and there was no one else he was more in sync with. Maybe it had an expiry date. Perhaps it has always have.

He swallows the remaining content of the glass, a bitter laugh fighting to get out of his chest. He also wonders why everything always seems way more dramatic at night. Maybe it's because of the silence, due to the lack of any distraction that could bring down the importance of a thought. He can't stand feeling his emotions so vulnerable, so bare. That's why he hates waking up in the middle of the night. It's clearly not doing any good to his sanity.

His feet feel heavy on the way back to his room, his steps cautious and closely watched. The last thing he needs right now his waking his parents or Alex up. He's not ready to answer any of the questions they would for sure ask him.

He doesn't realize how cold he actually is until he reaches his childhood bedroom again. Maybe walking around the house just in boxers while the sweat cooled over his skin hasn't been such a good idea after all. It would be the last straw, he snorts internally, getting sick because of his insomnia.

An unexpected shiver shakes his limbs, his hair standing on end, as if his body was registering the uncomfortable temperature the surface of his skin has picked up all of a sudden. He heads towards the wardrobe almost out of reflex, fearing the dangerous territory his mind is already approaching.

He shouldn't have kept _it._

He should have returned it already. He still can't understand why the hell he hasn't found the courage to do it yet. It's ridiculous and pathetic, yeah, but he really can't bring himself to give it back. He curses once again. He's fucking himself up. Absolutely and to the core.

But it doesn't even matter anymore, not when any previous warning from his brain is shamelessly ignored by his body, his previous resolve dissolving into nothing. His hand reaches for the last drawer, going past any other piece of clothing until he reaches the bottom, getting a hold of what he has been looking for.

He's no longer willing to analyse neither criticize his own actions. He's honestly sick of it, already. Sick of everything. It has been proved that this constant battles against his brain and common sense are pretty fruitless. It's too late to think rationally. He's too tired to do so.

He unfolds the garment and slides it over his torso, with the same fluidity he did that morning, two months ago, under the scrutiny of those electrifying, attentive blue eyes.

His stomach bolts at the memory, its evocation sharpened and intensified when the soft fabric makes its way over his face, cause god, it still smells so much like Valentino. That's one of the reasons why he hasn't even washed it yet. The minty scent mixed with something that is so unmistakably Vale, something he doesn't want to get rid off.

Again, it is hopelessly pathetic. As if the pieces of clothing the italian lent him were the only weak string that still linked them together, their only source of connection left.

_I will give it back to him the next race I crash._

A sour smile tugs at the corners of his lips, at the ridiculousness of his own silly promise. Who knows, maybe it will turn out to be a good incentive.

The simple thought of a circuit, a track, of his natural habitat, is almost enough to make the pressure on his chest feel a little bit lighter. He can't wait to hop on his bike again. He can't wait for it to take his mind away from everything. From Dani's departure. From the pressure of knowing that one of the people he trust the most will no longer be at the other side of the box. From the acknowledge that he can't make a single mistake. In any aspect. From _him_. At least, subjectively speaking. 

_Only a few days left._

He stares at the messy nest of sheets his bed has become, before staring down at himself, at the mess he has become. He absent-mindedly traces the VR46 symbol on the hem of the hoodie as his back finally hits the mattress. Probably, this stupid choice of clothing will only provoke him more nightmares than before, but he can't bring himself to care anymore. His eyes wander all over the room, his room, to the higher shelf, where a collection of minibikes once was, besides a yellow cap, both things now buried in a cardboard box. Because after 2015 it seemed like the appropriate thing to do. When will his heart learn to do the same? When will he learn to keep it all away, where it can no longer hurt him?

He's clearly failing once again.

His mind wanders to him one last time, bet he is in good company at this stake of the night. The thought lingers just for seconds, as long as he's able to stand it, a painful headache slowly forming at the back of his skull. He probably shouldn't, but Marc finds himself burying his nose on the collar, letting the familiar, still criminally attractive and comforting smell lull him to sleep.

He'll give it back. And it will all finally be over between them. He's sure it already is on the italian's part.

But he's not ready. Not yet. But he'll be. Soon.

His fingers get a hold of the soft fabric, reveal in the way it takes coldness away from him. Fuck, it nearly feels like hugging him, waking up a bunch of memories he's not ready to recall. But for a that split second, everything almost feels alright.

Yeah, it must be too late. He must be too tired to think straight.

 

Inhale. Exhale.

 

Inhale.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Red Bull Ring, Austria_ **

**_02:39, 11th August, 2018_ **

 

It's ridiculous. Plainly and utterly ridiculous.

It should be ignored, irrelevant, unimportant. But apparently his mind wasn't able to stop brooding on it.

Valentino changes the surely unhealthy position he had been maintaining on the couch, feeling a slight soreness spread over his back. The movie he had chosen in a desperate attempt to distract himself kept playing on the TV but if he was asked he probably couldn't tell what it was about. If only he had payed attention to a minute of it.

He doesn't get it. He really doesn't, as much as he tries. It's not something that should worry him. He should be way more concerned by the shity situation his bike is currently in. Or by the poor performance he would for sure display on Sunday. But no, his stupid fucking brain keeps on revolving about one pathetic thought.

_What's wrong with him?_

Until that afternoon, he had been pretty convinced that it had something to do with concentration. Full focus as the only plausible explanation for that smile to be that dim. He knew Marc (at least once he did) well enough to tell that those grins he had been showing off since the end of the break weren't wholly sincere. And hadn't anyone else noticed the darker shade under his eyes, or the flashes of tiredness? 

Well, apparently someone had, aside from himself. Safety Commission reunions had decreased their level of awkwardness since Austin, the tension created out of locking both of them up in a narrow room lowering gradually as weeks passed by.

Today's meeting meant to be another meaningless one. If it hadn't been because of that moment. He wasn't even looking his way, too immersed in his conversation with Andrea, until Dani's question reached his hearing limits. And he hadn't been able to help the urge to observe how Pedrosa had sat down beside his teammate, how he had squeezed his shoulder and how he had muttered that concerned "are you okay?" thay only Dani could slip in a conversation that discreetly.

But the answer had been the one confirming his suspects, the strained, wordless nod, the almost forced smile the Repsol rider had executed making Valentino's guts drop like they hadn't done in quite a long time. Cause clearly, he was not okay. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Later, he's not going to lie, it had been hard to stop his own gaze to constantly search Marc's, in the most imperceptible way he had managed, even though it was against the rules he had imposed himself. And when they did lock, the Spaniard had taken his away so hurriedly Valentino had ended up thinking he had imagined each one of them.

He finally shuts down the TV when she comes out of his bedroom, apparently with the mission of taking him back to bed. And maybe it's for the better, her presence helping to keep his thoughts and actions in check. He let's himself get carried away, trying to lose himself in her touch under the sheets. Trying to block all his concerns away. But when everything is in silence once again, his eyes remain open and his mind keeps revolving around the last person that should be occupying his thoughts.

 

~*~

 

Luca corners him on Sunday night.

He's just gotten out of the shower, not expecting anyone at the other side of the door, everyone else presumably still on the Hospitality.

He always leaves the first after a race, the odd gesture no longer frowned upon. They had gotten used to it, and they definitely know better than following him, probably effectively lectured by Uccio. He prefers having this little moment for himself, almost the only one during the whole weekend, regardless how the race ends. And that Sunday evening in Austria, after Yamaha's crappy show, he craves his moment of solitude more than ever.

But apparently, not even that goes well for him that weekend.

As soon as he opens the door, he sees his little brother casually sitting on the mattress, for a moment, resembling to perfection all those times he had waited for Valentino on his room, back at home. All those times he had patiently waited for his big brother to fulfil his previous oath and take him for a promised ride on one of his bikes. If it wasn't for the longer limbs and the more mature gaze, he would for sure believe he's back on one of those situations that would lead them to another clandestine ride that their mom would definitely end up being aware of.

But what really makes him stop dead on his tracks is the object Luca is fidgeting with. Blood rushes straight up his head when his brother turns his attention to him. And god, it must have been years since the last time he remembers the last time he blushed.

He should have gotten rid of it. He doesn't even want to analyse the motive that has pushed him to keep it. Damn it, because it would have saved him from living the current, pretty embarrassing situation he's in.

He feels his own eyes widening when Luca flips the blue Michelin cap up, easily picking it back after it has done a few quick spirals in the air. The fact that his brother doesn't look the slightly bit bothered by all of it only boosts Valentino's anxiety even more.

Two strides are enough to get him close to Luca, his arm already moving brusquely to jerk the item out of those cheeky, prying hands. But fuck, the younger's quick reflexes are enough to keep the cap out of his reach. Oh, how he misses the times Luca was a few feet shorter than him, slower and way more helpless.

"Give it back" he demands, his voice way weaker than he has intended it to be.

His brother observes him curiously, the scrutiny almost making Valentino squirm, as if he was seeing him again after a long time.

"You know, I was looking for a shirt to borrow from your wardrobe when I came across this, and I think I would have noticed if you had won in Le Mans" he comments, almost nonchalantly while he twists the cap some more, the golden 1st and embroidered French flag he knows that ornate the sides, on full display.

He tries to reach for it once again, but Luca's hand keeps on being obnoxiously fast, as if the roles had been reversed now he was the big brother, teasing mercilessly the little one.

"Give. It. Back" he hisses, patient running out dangerously quickly now. He doesn't think he has look at his brother this severely in years. And goodness, how had he been so careless? That thing should be on the trash. If only he had had what it takes to throw it away.

"I will, once you have explained to me how you have gotten this" Luca speaks with some sort of serenity that only irks Valentino further "Don't tell me you had the nerve to steal it"

"Don't be ridiculous" he spats suddenly, the senseless thought nearly ripping a bitter laugh out of his chest. He had enough of those ones back at home to fill an entire room, the idea of taking one that doesn't belong to him seeming utterly stupid. But that one is actually not his. And he has kept it anyway. Valentino can already feel hotness traveling up his skin once again and he absolutely despites it. He desperately looks inside his brain for some kind of excuse convincing enough to get him out of this. Finding none, he finally decides to go for the truth. It's just his brother, after all  "He forgot it here"

"Marc has been here?" Luca's eyebrows raise incredibly fast, as if the thought of his brother's biggest rival on said brother's motorhome was plainly inconceivable. And yeah, if he was in his position maybe he wouldn't have believe it, either.

The _yes_ gets stuck on his throat, memories of that night suddenly assaulting him. Marc crunched over his toilet, Valentino getting the Michelin gift out of the way, that precise action what had lead it here, anyway. What has lead them here. Marc's frame buried under his arms, Marc sleeping on his couch and looking, he can't help it neither deny it, absolutely breathtaking. Marc apologizing, Marc congratulating him, Marc wearing his hoodie. Marc smiling at him like he hadn't done in ages. _Marc, Marc, Marc._

He swallows forcefully, his brother looking at him with an odd intensity, as if he knew something Valentino didn't. In that exact moment, is scary how much he resembles their mother.

"He was, by mistake" he hurriedly makes clear, nearly cursing at the lack of conviction his voice shows "It was nothing"

 _Liar_ , his own mind betrays him, for the first time being aware of how much that encounter did unsettle him. How much his feelings that night had been haunting him until now. That new wave of angst must have shown on his features, cause he can see Luca's blue eyes suddenly softening, the teasing, smug glint no longer there. His little brother takes a step forward, his presence no longer wary neither cocky.

"Tell me about it?" Luca finally dares to ask, breaking a brief, suffocating moment of silence.

"He was drunk. Probably didn't know what the fuck he was doing. He got sick here and I..." he finds himself spilling, images of the night in question flashing behind his eyelids "Didn't have the guts to kick him out. End of the story"

The  _I took care of him_ hidden on his sentence doesn't seem to go unnoticed to Luca, though. Of course not.

"Okay" his little brother inhales deeply, as if he needed a moment to take everything in. It is a lot take in, in fact "Waiting for the perfect moment to give it back?"

The question catches him completely off guard. He's to replay inside his head a few times to catch the meaning of each word, following a similar process to the one he uses when he's listens English or Spanish. Right now, he feels as if Luca had indeed spoken in another language.

"What?" Is he kidding?

"You wouldn't have kept it if you didn't" if the question had unsettled him, that remark throws him off entirely. Cause it feels as if his little brother had stolen the hidden thoughts, truths he doesn't want to acknowledge himself and was voicing them recklessly and out loud, shoving them against his face.

"I don't, keeping it has been pretty stupid" he vehemently denies, his muscles not easing a bit of the tension they have been accumulating since he had gotten out of the bathroom. His relaxed state after a cleansing shower must have lasted over three minutes, this time. The cherry on top to the disastrous weekend.

"You know what else is stupid? Your fucking pride" and if he thought he couldn't be more taken aback by Luca's statements he's proved wrong for the nth time. His jaw hurts, he has been clenching it way too much during this conversation, but the younger's gaze doesn't waver and Valentino suddenly asks himself where did time go, when has Luca grown up so much for them to be discussing these things "You don't see it, do you?"

"There's nothing to see. This is how things are and it's not my fault, if I remember correctly" anger that hadn't been there before suddenly tints his words, the allusion of that afternoon in Argentina coming out by itself, indeed, feeding his rage. He's too tired to deal with all of this calmly.

"Maybe this time it isn't, but he apologized. Is it really so fucking hard to let go of the matter?" He doesn't miss the frustration lacing with Luca's sentences, as if he was trying to show him something evident, something he couldn't believe Valentino didn't understand.

Maybe for anyone else it wasn't hard at all. But he can't help it. So many things have happened between them for it to be sorted out with a handshake. An interview in Mugello suddenly crosses his mind, his own words echoing in his head like a broken record. _We have a long story behind, never solved._ And he still seriously doubts it will ever be solved, cause he feels as incapable of admitting his mistakes when it comes to Marc as much as apparently it is for his bike to go fast this season.

"Yes, it is hard, because you don't even understand half of it" Because there was certain feelings once he's not sure he even understood himself. His connection with Marc hasn't lost a bit of its complexity and whichever point of view Luca had of it, Valentino could assure him it was not as simple as it seemed. It had never been.

"Okay, maybe I don't" he admits, shrugging lightly, but The Moto2 rider hasn't lost a bit of his determination, not even after his big brother's harsher remarks, but his posture relaxes visibly, as if he had finally given up on smacking some sense into Valentino's head. He finally approaches him, and for a moment, he's not sure if Luca is going to hug him or to kick him. In the end, neither of them "But you know, it must be sad; knowing that someone you adored now hates you that much"

And he instantly knows that his brother his not talking about him, Luca's affirmation linking itself dangerously quickly with those dim expression he was not used to see in that usually smiley face. For a split second, he almost can't stand the thought of being the responsible of that.

Without another word, the younger presses the cap against Valentino's chest, his own hand responding nearly involuntarily to finally grasp it. Strangely enough, now he feels a wave of uneasiness hit him by the touch of it, by the feeling of the material vibrating almost imperceptibly due to his heartbeat.

He only knows Luca has left when the noise of the door closing reaches his ears. The silence surrounding him suddenly becoming oppressive, becoming too much, the chaos on his head too messy to be processed rationally. Without further thinking he quickly grabs a hoodie an rushes towards the door Luca had exited through a few minutes ago, the dark blue cap firmly grasped between his fingers, a new, unexpected impulse of determination moving every single cell on his body. Cause if he wants to get over all of this, he's got to return that constant reminder back where it belongs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank so, so much for reading ❤


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking around for those who keep reading this and for not not giving up on this story. It means a lot.
> 
> Love you, enjoy <3

_Silverstone, Great Britain_

_23rd August, 2018_

 

He doesn't know why, but Silverstone has always given him good vibes. It doesn't matter how good or complicated the situation the team is going through might be. In the British circuit he feels as if things for Yamaha would turn out well, regardless everything else. Oh, how they could use that right now.

The atmosphere of the press conference doesn't change from one year to another, he notices as he calmly strolls there. It's almost not altered from the previous grand prixes's ones. The only thing modified from one week to another are his own sensations, his own feelings. That's what makes everything different.

Today, there is still an odd sensation on the pit of his stomach, that had settled there a few days ago. It was kind of what had started it all that infamous 2015, what had set on fire the fuse; Jorge entering the equation.

It's a bitter memory, one of those you usually try to block from reproducing on your head, one of those whose reminiscence makes you involuntarily cringe, out of displeasure, pain or embarrassment. But despite his resistance, his brain apparently refuses to forget how angry, how broken he had been back then, for and because of everything. Because that horrible year he hadn't just wasted the best opportunity he has had to get the tenth. No, the suddenly overwhelming pressure had pushed him to think, to do things that, although he has never said it out loud and probably never will, he pretty much regrets now.

It's probably absurd and childish. But to be honest, it's even more painful now, seeing them share knowing looks, fleeting touches, seeing that mutual understatement ooze of them.

_Like we used to._

Because maybe it wasn't true back then. Maybe it was probably just another delusion. But it might be true now, if the comments the had exchanged on social media lately were anything to go by.

It feels as if the story was repeating itself, this time, without damaging him professionally, but he can't decide when the emotional pain has actually been worse; back then or now.

The room is already crowded and he's not late, for once. Valentino quickly finds himself easily talking with Yamaha's press responsible, who usually accompanies him to every single press related compromise. Their tribial conversations about the weekend, the bike and the track flow easily. At least, until he sees him.

He gets a glimpse of his cap first, the little, white ninety-three embroidered on the red surface enough to give away who his owner is. A flashback he would prefer not remembering appears from the back of his head, where he had tried, unsuccessfully, to bury it, these past days. His failed mission consisting on giving Marc what he had forgotten at his that night at Le Mans still unpleasantly present on his mind.

Yes, he actually got there. No, he didn't chicken out in the last moment. But Alex's unwavering presence on his brother's motorhome after the AustrianGP had made it impossible for him to corner Marc alone. And he definitely wasn't willing to spill their encouter after the french grand prix to anyone else. Luca has been enough. But that makes him wonder, if the little Marquez had been perceptive enough to grasp that there was something going on. Or if the older brother had shared it with him. Giving how close they are, it doesn't look impossible. Still, it was better not to find out.

The frustrated attempt almost got him to throw the stupid cap to the rubbish, where it should have been for months already. But he still can't fucking bring himself to do it. _Because it's Marc's._ As ridiculous and lamentable as it is, that's the obnoxious main reason.

And today, of course, the kid is here. As smiley as usual. And Valentino might be paranoid already, but he can't help measuring again the honesty of that smile. Not since the last race weekend. He can't decide, though, if the lack of that gloomy hint he has noticed in Austria should be of his liking. The possibility of someone else restoring the brightness of that smile that easily suddenly becomes oddly unbearable. Nearly has much as causing it. If that has ever been the case, anyway.

And if he had any doubt before (or foolish trace of hope) he gets to witness at first-hand that apparently, that recently discovered closeness between him and Jorge are no longer baseless neither unfounded.

He wants to convince himself of the fact that it's not _that_. That he's not feeling jealousy.

At all.

That's simply not possible. It makes no sense. The factor needed for that to be conceivable is not something he's ready to analyse himself for. Absolutely no.

But, truth to be told, the unnamed, unpleasant sensation on the bottom of his stomach refuses to leave when they enter his range of vision; joking, conversation flowing easily between them.

The white piece of paper attached to the table, filled with their names stares back at him mockingly, just besides the Honda rider's, making him wonder if it has always been this hard to ignore Marc's proximity. Has it always been this hard to ignore all the memories the hint of perfume that gets under his nose, brings along? Has it always been this hard to feign that he's over all this?

It for sure isn't hard at all for the Spaniard, or at least, it doesn't look like it. The worst thing, though, is that his head keeps on turning the subject over and over while journalists start asking questions, most words swimming meaninglessly through his ears and it becomes harder than normally; putting the charismatic facade on to hide his discomfort, his restlessness. It's not the first time he has this uneasy sensation eating up his insides. It has been intermittently there for three years now, and today, the _I caused all this by myself_ is more present than it has been in months.

It's like a wound that refuses to heal, and the more he tries, the worst it gets.

The connection with the International Space Station is a nice, curious, and interesting twist in the usually monotone conferences. It helps him ease the tension a little bit, his mind entertained for a while. But in the end, when the little distractions are over, that damned ache floods his head again. He's always eager to reach the end of the obligatory meetings with the press, but today the longing for it to finish becomes overwhelming. Because he has had enough friendly interactions between _those two_ for today.

_You better get used to it, though._

He swallows thickly, his throat suddenly that little bit tighter, cause for the first time, the thought of Marc and Jorge sharing team the next year unsettles him further than professionally speaking.

 

~*~

 

_Silverstone, Great Britain_

_26th August, 2018_

 

On Sunday he wakes up with an unusual feeling spreading through his nerves from the base of his spine. That kind of sensation you have when something unexpected is going to happen, like a hunch. The problem is, that he can't decide if it's of the negative kind.

As everyone had imagined, the british sky doesn't surprises this year, the pale grey tone it displays instantly matches the exact shade Valentino expected before he has even opened the curtains.

He's glad the race has been set to begin earlier. He has an special craving to race these weekend, a hunger that had dangerously decreased these past weeks due to his Yamaha's lacking of competitiveness. But today is different, for once, he's nearly indifferent at the result. He simply wants to race, to hop on a bike and not think about anything else.

But there is no such luck.

Of course not. Maybe it's the definitive proof of the fact that the whole universe seems to be against him. He has been on the championship for more than twenty years, and yet, he finds himself in a completely different, unknown situation.

At the end of the day, he feels more tired than if he had actually raced and oddly incomplete. Because a Sunday on a circuit, without racing, it's not a proper Sunday.

He leisurely starts to fill his suitcase, definitely more annoyed than usual at Uccio's insistence to do so and wondering when his best friend's behaviour has become so similar to a mother's one.

He folds pieces of clothes and stores them them together, not really paying attention to the actions his hands execute. He hopes the part of his subconscious that is taking charge of his movements doesn't forget anything behind.

He almost jumps when the noise of knocks resonates through the entire motorhome, already imagining his best friend frowning at the other side of the door, telling him for the nth time to hurry up or demanding Valentino to grant him entrance. He curses under his breath, swearing that if that's the case, he's going to hang the keys on Uccio's neck so he doesn't forget them ever again.

But apparently, the weirdest day he can remember in a long time isn't done yet. He experiments some sort of deja vu when he opens the door and finds _Marc_ , of all people, at the other side.

It's almost like Le Mans all over again; the same puzzlement on his brain, the same stiffness on his muscles, that identical, brief moment of blankness his mind goes through.

His heartbeat picks up speed when the Spaniard looks up at him from under the hem of his hood, that until now had covered most of his face. The reason for that boosts Valentino's muscles as he quickly grabs Marc by the elbow, effectively dragging him in. Because that's one of the differences with that night in France, and although the paddock is gradually emptying, there is still enough people here, and enough light to get them into a mess.

His brain slowly processes that the Repsol rider is actually here. To be honest, he has been thinking about him so often lately, that strangely, now it has become kind of hard to acknowledge that he's no longer just on Valentino's head, but physically present, as well.

The world champion is buried on his white, Honda impermeable coat, that apparently it's still needed, if the little, stray drops scattered over the surface are anything to go by. If anything really unsettles Valentino, that's the Spaniard's expression as he removes the hood from his head. It's unusually grim, unusually serious, the corners of his mouth oddly immobilized.

It's something he wants to forget, to bury as soon as possible; the suddenly assaulting urge to ask what's wrong. Unfortunately, he knows the answer too well, it's too clear. _He's already fed up with your shit._

He wonders when this has happened, when his ire and frustration had turned into this prideful guilt. He hates things being this complicated between them, this cold, but he also feels as if the solution was beyond his reach, where he could never get a hold of it. For the first time, he asks himself if winning the tenth title would really been worth loosing Marc completely. And of course, the reply to that appears obnoxiously fast, horribly sincere.

  
~°~

  
Marc really doesn't know what has finally pushed him to do it. It's strange, because he usually doesn't think twice when in front a daring, risky situation. But when it comes to this, when it comes to _him_ , everything feels ten times more difficult, even if there is nothing to risk anymore.

Tiny raindrops stick to the slippery frabric of his coat, he can still hear the quick, light, random taps as they hit it. He honestly doesn't know what had gotten into him, where the urge had appeared from, after avoiding it for such a long time. But after the tiresome day of concentration without reward, without race, he doesn't want more sources of headache.

He knocks at the door decidedly, for once, not even caring about finding Uccio or Luca at the other side of the door. Because this will be the last time he comes to his motorhome, after all. If he really wants it to end he should start acting like it.

He unconsciously tightens his hold on the pieces of clothing he has pressed against his chest, covering them the best he can to avoid getting them wet. He wants to give back what he borrowed in the best state possible. He owes him that much, after all.

The answer comes fast, and he's thankful for that, it prevents him from regretting, from turning on his heels and head back to his motorhome again. When the door reveals the italian, the exact flash of surprise Marc expected crosses his features, but the following action does startle him, because before he can open his mouth to announce the purpose of his brief visit, he's pulled inside.

Right. Maybe this isn't the safest hour to wait at his door just like that. It's already bad enough as it is.

Valentino restless gaze roams over his face for a bunch of seconds when he discards the white hood of his coat away from his head. It's more cozy inside, he notices when the piece of clothing starts being too much, when he feels the nearly irrepressible need of taking it off. He would, if things were merely friendly between them and if he wasn't going to leave in a few minutes. He will have to ignore the heat, it seems.

Valentino keeps on staring at him with those piercing blue eyes he used to know so well, that used to read him so well, and it takes him a few more seconds to realize that he should say something. He's been the one coming, in the end, he has been the one knocking.

"I think this is yours" he announces shortly and straight to the point, actually proud of himself when his voice doesn't tremble, doesn't waver and the pressure on his chest decreases noticeably, as if his body was finally comprehending that there is no need to keep up the tension, that there's nothing to loose anymore. If ever was.

Handing the italian those sweatpants and that hoodie he has slept in lately more times than he was actually willing to admit, feels like finally cutting out the string. Like an expected farewell to his hope, that naive, stupid hope that once made him believe that there was something else between them, that he had always felt drawn to him for a reason, that they were connected somehow.

And strangely, he doesn't feel the intense grief he had imagined he would. Maybe his system has already run out of pain and sorrow, the emotions he had been flooded with since they drifted apart, since he was no longer welcome in those arms.

No, right now he just feels some sort of emptiness that seems to be extracting energy out of him. He doesn't even feel like smiling. He doesn't feel like himself at all today.

He doesn't even care about not sticking to the promise he made one of those sleepless nights during the break. _I said I would give it back to you when I crashed, but I really can't go on like this._ He simply couldn't bring himself to fulfil that anymore.

They are surrounded by silence for an amount of time that Marc would be completely incapable of taking into account. It used to be like that with Valentino back then, with those long conversations they didn't feel like ending, those Sunday nights when they couldn't stop texting, those short whispers exchanged quietly during a press conference that were never long enough. Time used to be difficult, different when he was with Vale. Now, that sensation only appears as a bittersweet memory.

His arm is still extended, offering the garments, the muscles starting to protest slightly, they hadn't expected being stretched that long. Marc allows himself to wait for an answer another fifteen seconds, yearning and fearing simultaneously the moment the clothes will be taken away from his reach, taking everything else with them. All those inexplicable feelings he had tried to hide for so long, that attraction he has always tried to conceal. It had taken him long enough to understand that it will never be reciprocated.

But the action he's waiting doesn't happen, either, and Marc wonders if Valentino is going to make things complex even out something as simple as taking some pieces of clothing. That apparently refusal finally prompts the Repsol rider to lift his gaze.

For the first time in a long time, he can't interpret the feelings accumulated on the italian's tempestuous eyes. He can't decide if they reflect hints of grudge, sadness, frustration, indifference or all those at once.

"What's going on with you?" the older's question, out of the blue, takes him aback, completely unprepared. Cause he doesn't understand its intention at all. Because why the hell would he ask, let alone care about that?

God, he could take it in so many ways that he's absolutely speechless while he analyses every word. _If only I knew, what's going on inside me when you are close. Maybe everything would have been easier from the start._

"I don't know what you mean" he finally voices, tired of pretending, of making an effort to not screw things between them even further. At least, until he had grasped that that caution wasn't worth it anymore. Not if there was nothing left to take care of to begin with.

He hadn't realized until now, how exhausted he was because of it. Maybe the perspective of arriving to Misano, in a few days, is what has finally triggered him. He can already imagine the _promising_  weekend; being constantly booed and glared at every passing second, feeling the unwavering pressure of those hateful eyes on the grandstands over him, waiting, craving for him to make a mistake, to crash. He can already imagine _her_ by his side, as the perpetual reminder that he would have never been his, not the way he had deep down always wanted. He had to get over that already. That's why giving it back now had seemed perfect timing.

He closes his eyes for a fleeting moment when the only answer Valentino provides is the tightening of his jaw, as if he was holding himself back from talking, as if he already regretted his previous question. And Marc can't deal with this anymore, cause it's becoming seriously unnerving, the insurmountable difficulties the seemed to have to communicate now. He had never been a patient person, but these three years he had waited enough. He has had enough.

"Look, it's okay if you don't want them back. You can set them on fire because I have worn them, if you want. I don't give a fuck" he finally lets out, almost throwing the pieces of clothing against the nearest couch. They land there violently, and he would actually be embarrassed about his own immature behaviour if he hadn't reached a point where he was beyond caring. Valentino hadn't hesitated to hurt him when he had felt like it, why would he worry about that now?

_Because you still care about him._

The voice inside him could shut up for once. His honest feels aren't relevant anymore, and now that he has started, now that he has brought himself to do it, he refuses to stop. He's definitely not going to hold his words back any longer.

"You know what? Let's just forget this, okay? All of this. Ignore me if you want, I don't care, you are already doing it anyway, but I had gotten tired of dealing with it. Because despite what you might think, I never wanted to hurt you, I never wanted you to loose a title and god knows that I never wanted to loose _you_. But what you had chosen to believe is beyond me. If you don't want me to talk to you ever again consider it done, because I'm already sick of it" he feels liberated for a few seconds after getting it out.

For a moment he really can't believe he has said it all out loud, but he has, if the Yamaha rider's tense expression is proof enough of it. There had been a time where he couldn't even imagine Valentino dedicating him the slightly kind of serious look. But that already belongs to the past, because it has been more than established that it would never come back. And hoping for it has proven to be pretty useless.

Still, the italian keeps silent, and Marc can't help but notice that his posture looks way jittery than before, his muscles visible stiff. But it's more than clear that words won't come out of his mouth and raw tiredness takes over Marc's entire body.

He's already burned out, and still, breaking their visual contact one last time, gathering the necessary energy to turn around and leave appears as one of the hardest tasks he has found himself in front of.

But he does.

He finally does it.

Or _almost_ , anyway.

But things don't seem to be willing to go as expected this fucking Sunday.

When cold, nimble fingers close firmly around his wrist and twist him around he's pretty positive that he's going to receive a punch in the face. It appears as the only plausible reaction at his speech besides ignorance. But what actually happens has never been one of the options, not for a single second.

Marc remembers perfectly the first emotion he felt when he crossed the finish line on Valencia, 2013. Before happiness exploded inside his chest, there was a few seconds of utter incredulity, of raw uncertainty. He had dreamed about that exact moment so many times before that he didn't know if he would wake up on his bed again, once he opened his eyes. Since then he hadn't been assaulted by the same sensation, that crushingly, ever again.

Until now.

When Valentino violently crushes their lips together there is only one thought left on his brain. _This is not real_. _This must be another one of those unsettling dreams I've been having for weeks now. This can't be real_.

And then, without further warning, heat engulfs him and every single nerve on his body sets on fire, spreading warmth as long as his limbs go. He barely registers the steady grasp of a hand against his scalp, another one, resting on the side of his neck, tilting his head slightly to deepen the surreal contact. And that scent, that scent that has lulled him to sleep the nights he had slept on that damned hoodie, envelopes him once again, but this time a thousand times stronger, making his brain short circuit.

And the worst, most devastating thing, is that it makes him melt within seconds, any rational warning or previous anger lashed out shuts down as if it has never been there.

And there's only _Valentino_.

 _Everywhere_.

The way his lips initiate movement against his, the first demanding motions quickly turning into something nearly unbearably emotional, horribly stimulating and deeply addictive. And his body reacts at the unexpected brush of their tongues without his permission, his lungs almost stop the breathing supply, his heart drums erratically against his ribcage and he finally understand what feeling butterflies on his stomach really means. The italian's fingertips burn its prints against the surface of the overheated skin of his jaw while he can do nothing but cling to him in case his knees finally decide to give up.

How could he possibly be that naive? Did he really believe that he could call the shots there? That he could switch off his feelings that easily? That he could seriously end it all by returning a piece of clothing?

Clearly not, cause every curve Valentino's mouth traces for him to follow covers his flesh with goosebumps, and he feels it; feels their identical strikes of frustration and longing colliding every time a part of their bodies grazes. And time seems impossible to measure once again, his brain still blank, incapable of reacting like it should. Because Valentino can still ignite a stubborn flame inside him that refuses to catch on fire at anyone else but him.

His breathing is annoyingly laboured when the contact is finally broken, barely able of keeping inside the disappointed whimper that fights to leave his throat. Because once he has experienced it, once he has experimented what's like to kiss _him,_ he wants to do it again. Repeatedly.

The italian's just as ragged intakes of breath mingles gently with his, and Marc's nerves are already overactive when their gazes find one another. It's impossible to calm down if Valentino keeps looking at him as if he was seeing him for the first time, although Marc is pretty sure he's more surprised by his own actions, as if the italian couldn't believe what he has done. It finally rips a sane reaction off his muscles. Regret is not something he's willing to accept. He's more than done with Vale's apparently ability to play with him.

He forcefully pushes the older's intoxicating presence away from him, using the break the vibration of Valentino's phone provides. His eyes tingle and he feels so awfully light headed he almost doesn't notices the brief conversation the Yamaha rider holds with whoever is at the other side of the line. But he's definitely not going to wait to find out.

He almost throws himself out of the motorhome, the cold, damp breeze that blows already sticking to his overheated cheeks. He doesn't even know if the vague sound his name being called it's a product of his imagination. This time he doesn't hesitate on getting out of his constricting, suffocating coat, not even caring about getting soaked to the bone. He can't bring himself to care about anything right now but what has happened in the last minutes.

It's cruelly ironic, half an hour ago he was convinced the way back to his motorhome would feel like plain resignation, flooded with the feeling of having ended something that was already finished, dead and over. Instead, the rapid pace of his heartbeat, the tingling of his lips and the high temperature of his flushed skin seem to be mocking him shamelessly, his brain boiling with way too many questions, of course, neither of them with comes with an answer.

And yeah, seems like the « _perfect»_ moment for Misano.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, loves <3

**_Misano World Circuit Marco Simoncelli_ **

_6th September, 2018_

 

He has been looking forward to this weekend since last September, when the possibility of racing at home snapped as violently as his leg did. He has been craving this grand prix for the whole year. And now that they are finally here, for the first time, he would rather be anywhere but on his beloved Misano.

He would like to think that he has gotten used to these situations, gone through them more times than he can actually count. But he's sure that the idea of being closely watched, of being the center of attention, of having the unwavering eyes of the restless people on the grandstands over him, hasnever made him this terribly nauseous before.

It has been a complicated week, to say the least. He almost hasn't got any sleep, the darker shade under his waterline giving it away perfectly. Instead, of course, his brain has done nothing but replay _that exact moment_ over and over again, accompanied by its corresponding sensations and the exact recall of emotions.

He has fucked up.That's an understatement.

But the Spaniard last declarations hadn't made it any easier. If anything, they had only proved that forgetting, that burying the matter on the deepest part of his chest wasn't an option anymore. It wouldn't be enough neither effective. Not if his heartbeat keeps on picking up speed any time he hears that voice pronounce his name, any time he perceives the inexplicable fondness and longing hiding there. And it's a fucking nightmare.

He doesn't know what came over him two weeks ago, why couldn't he just let Marc go, cutting the weak, thin remaining strings between. But no, his body had acted on his own, his head no longer trustworthy after a whole day of concentration without a purpose. His muscles simply gave into the impulse of keeping the kid close, of not letting him go. Because the thought of not speaking to him ever again, the thought of losing him for good, suddenly seemed absolutely consuming, horribly unbearable.

And here they were today, side by side on that table, as usual. Ready to face and feed with uncompromising, easy words the always hungry press. He stares at the white labels attached to the piece of furniture, for a second. He observes the succession of letters that conforms both names and for a brief moment he's overwhelmed at the realisation of how natural it's to see them together, close to one another, as if they couldn't scape the other no matter what. So much like them.

And he feels oddly, awfully tense, today.

His nerves are jittery, agitated, as if ready to jump at the slightly threatening movement. He's not ready to face Marc after what happened in Silverstone. After what he did. It's too soon. He's too affected. It's so complicated. Because he's not ready to admit to himself how much that kiss shook his carefully built internal walls. How vividly he remembers it. How much he would like to do it again. And again.

But he can't. They can't. And that makes his stupid mistake even worse.

It's the moment to act like the rational being he usually was (when things had nothing to do with Marc) and end this once and for all. He owed them that much.

And the it's asked.

They are not about losing time, as the first question from the floor is directed at him like a point-blank shot. And it sounds absurd, almost ridiculous. Making peace with him? After what has happened between them? He fights to keep the bitter chuckle inside his throat, almost choking with it, because if only they knew...they wouldn't for sure ask these stupid questions.

He absent-mindedly squeezes a handful of fabric from his pants while the hair covering his skin stands on end. He takes a breath and dodges the answer as subtly as he can. It's not a problem. He doesn't have a problem with Marc.

It's a poor way of describing it.

Luckily, he doesn't make pressure for more and he does his best to focus on the next question, to ignore how the weight of Marc's eyes burns against his flesh.

He's tense. Even more with each passing second.

His muscles ache due to the constant tightening, and the moment they bring up _the topic_ once again (because of fucking course, they wouldn't drop it that easily), he almost doesn't hear it over the violent pumping of his blood inside his ears.

For a split second, he's relieved when Marc decides to answer first, because he feels utterly lost for words, terribly speechless, his mouth dry and his tongue momentarily immobile. And just like that, out of nowhere, that hand is offered to him.

Valentino has never acted on a play, in his whole life. He's never had the opportunity to try, of course, but somehow he already could tell that theatre was not his thing. And right now, with that slim palm extended before him, he feels as if on top of a stage, as if the curtain had just been opened and thousands of eyes were staring at him, impatiently waiting for him to interpret a screenplay he knew nothing about. His lines are missing. And it's acting, it's clearly not sincere. Evidently forced.

No, not like this. Not in front of an audience. Not to pleasure those starving journalists, just craving for polemic.

And he feels nauseous, his head and his stomach spinning beyond control, his limbs ready to flee any moment now. Because he feels so exposed, so naked and bare in front of the press, as if his usual ability to put on a facade had suddenly disappeared. And he simply shakes his head, he refuses playing their game. He knows Marc is young. Still terribly young. And he's being pressured. But he's not. Therefore he's not going to sale, to show their issue that blatantly to the press. It's something between the two of them.

It must have been a second, the amount of time his eyes locked with those bottomless, expectant, horribly hopeful dark pools of Marc. And although the flash of hurt is impressively quickly replaced by feigned indifference, irony and humour, it has definitely been there.

 _It's like this,_ he catches as Marc's last deeply resigned words. And yeah, he agrees in this one.

It's like this.

He repeats his previous answer like a mantra, is usual ironic grin in place and prays for this torture to end already, the palpable tension engulfing everyone on the damn room to the bone. He almost can't remember the last time he had felt that trapped, that awfully caged on a press conference.

And he almost can't believe it when it is finally, officially over and he can head to Yamaha's trailer. But of course, there is one last interview waiting for him there.

He instantly recognizes the guy from the Spanish broadcasting channel, blue microphone in hand. He dedicates Valentino a polite, awkward smile as a greeting, as if suddenly he didn't knew whether approaching him it's a good idea now, but he's beyond caring at this point.

He almost lets out a loud, relieved sigh when the first question made is about him being on his home grand prix. Even though he feels impressively exhausted, he extends and elaborates the answer as much as possible, not wanting it to end, already fearing what's coming next.

But when the guy actually asks about it, he simply lets a smile make its way up to his lips again, not fully sincere, but just necessarily there. And for the first time during the whole afternoon, he simply speaks what's on his mind. He states that his and Marc's personal conflicts are theirs, no one elses', its something between the two of them. It has always been. And this time he refuses to share it in the eye of the public. He doesn't know why he's out of nowhere this selfish and reserved about it, but he's already too tired of not feeling in control of his own life anymore, of his own feelings. Enough is enough.

The reporter's last nod it's liberating, his gaze somehow less judgmental, apparently more satisfied with these last words. And to be honest, he is too. There is a little kid waiting for a photo a few meters away, he notices. He takes it. Next, his legs automatically climb up the stairs to Yamaha's office, his body moving nearly out of reflex, out of habit.

He just wishes that getting rid of those thoughts starring the last person he wants to think about, was that easy, as well.

 

~°~

 

It has been years, since the last time Marc cried himself to sleep. He couldn't have been above nine years old, and he can't even remember the cause of his uneasiness back then. He hopes he'll be able to forget this that easily. 

He keeps his eyes closed, once in a while, when the emotions reach its higher peak, a silent tear makes its way down his cheekbone. He wouldn't even call this crying, it's not even properly sobbing. His muscles don't tremble and his breathing it's not even agitated. It's just mute, soundless pain.

The only thing that truly hurts is his head. It feels as if his mind was overheating, at the verge of collapsing with too many memories, words and images. The desired state of slumber only lasts half an hour and he's truly exhausted, but apparently not enough for his body to disconnect.

Normally, he would get up and pace around the motorhome, maybe entertain himself in front of the TV or go for a glass of something. Anything. He would follow that routine he had adopted these past month. But not tonight. He's sure he would throw up if he changes in the slightest the position he has crawled himself into.

He's an absolute idiot. An utter fool. Naive enough to think that a few pretty, honest words would be enough to easy the tension.

Apparently he was wrong. Again.

He tightens his hold on the pillow buried under his arms, longing for a hug that won't be reciprocated. Anothet salty, silent drop escapes from the corner his eye. Because how is this his life. When did the stars aligned this strangely, oddly enough to release this chaos in their previously flawless bond.

But he's perfectly aware of the fact that it's pretty useless to mourn the irreconcilable situation, if the buzzing on his head it's anything to go by. He bends his body that little bit more, the ball his limbs have created getting the tiniest bit smaller. Just for tonight. Just now, he allows himself to break down a little. This is the only moment he can afford the luxury of being hurt, broken, of being weak. That fucking kiss had made him weak, had made him hopeful, made the perfect toy out of him for Valentino to play with.

"Okay, enough" he mutters under his breath. Because he's had enough sulking. If the italian thought their personal relationship wasn't important, then he wouldn't consider it as such, either. He is tired of constantly pushing and fighting for something that is never going to happen. He has to wrap his head around it already.

He almost doesn't hear Alex approaching until his little brother clawls on his bed. The Moto2 rider rests his back against the headboard, accompanying his movements with a long sigh. Marc can only make out the contour of half of his face from his position, barely illuminated by the pale, nightly light that filters through the curtain. His expression is earnest as he folds his long legs together, the almost childish posture counteracting the settled, determined glint on his eyes.

"You haven't gotten any sleep, have you?" He goes straight to the point, and Marc would love lying to him, giving away that he's indeed as unaffected as he desperately wants to be. But he can't hide a thing to Alex. He knows him too well to manage something acceptably convincing.

But he doesn't feel like talking at all, either, not trusting the serenity he would have his words to have, so he sticks to a simple nod. It's evident in the end, or at least it will be evident tomorrow, with those dark under eyes he'll for sure have.

"Yeah, I thought so" Alex nods, still not looking directly at him for more than a few seconds. His posture is stiff, Marc notices, but he understands why until his brother fires his next question "There was something going on between the two of you, right?"

He contemplates the question, strangely calm about it, because somehow he expected the conversation to follow this path. For a moment, he truly wonders if he should tell Alex about it.

_Why not?_

It was Alex, in the end, and there is nothing to hide anymore. He's tired of storing everything in the deepest part of himself, of bottling it up behind smiles and jokes, where no one could see it. Things can't get worse, either way.

His brother's green eyes are fully fixed on him, now, his semblance expectant but admirably collected. And Marc can't help but feel as if the roles had been reversed and he was currently the younger one of them.

"Are you surprised?" He finally asks hoarsely as a confirmation. The _yes, there was something going on_ not pronounced, but hidden between the syllables, evident enough for Alex to grasp it.

"No" his brother chuckles grimly, as if the answer was too obvious to be denied in the first place "I would have been surprised if you hadn't affirmed it"

"Well, it doesn't matter anymore" he whispers harshly after a heavy silence, burying half of his face further into the pillow. And maybe it really doesn't. Maybe Valentino is right and their personal relationship, or what it's left of it anyway, is no longer important. That kiss and what it made him feel are no longer relevant. Clearly, it was just another trick to destabilise him, to put a bait in sight that the italian knew perfectly he would end up swallowing. And he had been stupid enough to fall for it.

"I think you are wrong" Alex's sudden statement catches him off guard. He even takes his eyes away from the undetermined point it had been fixed on for the last few minutes. His brother his fidgeting with the hem of his pijama pants and again, his obnoxiously mature appearance unsettles him "If you are suffering because of it, it matters. You can't shut it out and do nothing every time Valentino does something to upset you"

_If only you knew..._

"Believe me, I have tried to cut it out" he retorts weakly, his throat suddenly feeling too narrow for the air to pass through it when he's assaulted with the remains of that kiss "But it didn't work out, and I don't know what to do with these fucking feelings anymore"

The silence that follows is so thick that for a split moment he's sure the words echoed against the walls, even though he has kept it at the lowest volume.

"Feelings are dangerous on track. You used to tell me that" Alex finally mutters after some eternal, never-ending seconds. And yeah, he did. He even recalls perfectly his little brother's childish eyes when he did so, back when he didn't know that that message would backfire and that now he would be the one suffering the consequences of it.

He swallows forcefully, a knot tightening on his throat, his whole body feeling heavy and stiff, the recurrent ache on his head slowly spreading down to his nape, obliging him to shut down his eyelids once again.

"Yeah, well, seems like I have paid the price for not following my own advices"

 

~°~ 

**_Yamaha's Hospitality_ **

_8th September, 2018_

 

His gaze fleetingly swims over the hospitality, finally unglued from his nearly untouched plate, almost for the first time during the whole dinner. As usual, Uccio is at his right, devouring everything on his plate, although Valentino wouldn't have needed the visual proof to confirm it.

How he wishes he could eat like that, how he wishes his stomach was immune, totally indifferent to the any external conditions, to his buzzing, annoyingly persistent thoughts. But no, he knows his body well enough to tell when it has reached its limit.

"Don't worry, seventh is not that bad, you'll be there tomorrow" he hears Matteo say, the deeply trusting, convincing tone of his team's member not having the reassuring effect it was probably intended to have. He appreciates it, of course, but he can't keep away the slight but consistent wave of disappointment. _What a home race weekend it is.._.And how he wishes his mediocre position on the grid was his only concern.

He simply lets out a strained half smile, the eyes of everyone else on the table suddenly oppressing and burning against his skin.

Except Luca's.

His little brother keeps his gaze fixed on his food, and for the first time during the whole weekend, Vale realizes that the younger rider hasn't talked to him, always finding an excuse to avoid him. And it's not hard to imagine the origin of his disapproval. _Your attitude towards Marc._

He sets his jaw, deciding that he has had enough for today, his levels of energy almost empty now, at its minimum.

"She's waiting for you, right?" Uccio asks slyly, pointing with his chin at Valentino's cell phone. And shit, there it was again, that fucking sensation that definitely wasn't there weeks ago, this sudden sour, bitter pressure at the pit of his stomach, which has been present for a while now, as if his body recognised that what he got to touch wasn't what it really craved. What he really, unconsciously wanted. And it's frightening, terrifying and unnerving because no matter what, since Silverstone, he can't shake it off.

"No, she's staying at a hotel, hates sleeping here, you know" he answers weakly, the words almost getting stuck on his throat when the information is released, cause it's oddly relieving, the fact that he will get to be alone tonight, without the constant obligation of acting and feigning that he's okay.

"Oh..." his best friend mutters, clearly surprised, clearly not content with what he has just heard. Sometimes he thinks Uccio is more interested in him having a girlfriend that Valentino himself, he doesn't fail to notice that his friend looks calmer, less worried, since she has been around, as if it kept dangers away. Dangers that he can't even identify. But he's too worn out to cope with Uccio's incomprehensible delusions at this point of the day.

"I'm going to sleep" he finally announces when his eyes catch a glimpse of the television screen attached to the hospitality metallic walls. And of course, Marc appears there, running gracefully after his crash in qualifying, the media worshipping the impressively short amount of time it took him to get back on track. And it's unexpectedly hard to keep inside his chest the casual chuckle, cause he doesn't know why they are surprised anymore.

_As if there was something that kid couldn't do._

 

~*~

_10th September, 2018_

_3:47 AM_

 

Valentino asks himself when has this become a recurrent thing between them.

He stares at the screen of his phone, the light almost blinding against his pupils, the uncomfortable effect enhanced by the thick darkness of the rest of the room. And he needs a few minutes to blink sleepiness away.

If there is something good about a disastrous race day in Misano, this is it. That they are in Misano, and the time that takes to get home is almost ridiculously short.

He thanks enormously not going through an airport today, taxi neither any other form of transport. He had fell face against the mattress as soon as he had closed the door behind him. He asked to be alone. He needed that kind of solitude tonight.

For a change, he had fallen asleep fairly quickly, probably out of exhaustion rather than inner peace. Because how can he be happy when the weekend has been this crappy from beginning to end?

But of course, it isn't done.

He had cursed under his breath when the momentary vibration of the damned device woke him up from his fragile state of slumber. He was going to ignore it, because anyone who dares texting him at nearly three in the morning can go to hell. But curiosity has always been one of his most personal traits.

That's how he has gotten here. Not believing his eyes, a single instagram DM burning his eyes and brain simultaneously, making an unwelcome wave of warmth spread all over him.

Fucking unbelievable.

Clearly, someone should keep that kid away from alcohol during podium celebrations. Because that precisely dragged them into this chaotic mess, in the first place.

And still, somehow, he knows this time it is not a lie.

Obviously, not an involuntarily error, either. He was more than sure that his name wasn't among the people Marc uses to chat with. He must have looked for him specifically.

And the boy is pretty much going to regret it once he regains his faculties, once he's on his right mind again. But the damage has already been done and as much as he tries Valentino can't stop looking at the screen, at how his currently biggest rival's account sends him a few letters that Valentino won't probably be able to stop thinking about in the next days. It's probably not important. It shouldn't be. But he can't help feeling this unexpectedly unsettled, this suddenly lost. But the words are clear, even if his feelings aren't.

He restarts the app a few times, not sure if he wants it to be the error he thinks it might be, his mind might be playing tricks on him. But it's still there fifteen minutes later, as well.

At 3:39 AM. @marcmarquez93 has indeed written him:

 

_I miss you._

 


	6. Chapter 6

**_Motorland, Aragón_ **

**_Thursday, 20th September, 2018_ **

 

It feels good for once, beginning the weekend without having to face the nearly mandatory press conference of each grand prix. A pleasing interruption in the dull, monotone pattern. Probably, the meetings with the press will be the only thing he won't miss once he retires.

Valentino shakes his head briefly, not wanting his mind to follow that path. It's his own taboo, a forbidden topic inside his head. But truth to be told, he's been wandering around it lately much more than he would have liked to. He recalls the plan he had last year with a mockingly sour strike of humour, now, how he would consider the option of a new contract depending on how this season went. And it has become impossible for him to decide if not following it had been entirely positive. But at the same time, it kind of scares him, sets an uncomfortable void at the pit of his stomach, how seriously he would have weighed the possibility of retirement, if he had known he would get a bike that apparently didn't want to race as bad as he did.

His back it's starting to hurt, probably due to the unhealthy posture he has adopted on the couch for the last half an hour. If his mom saw him right now, he would be already receiving the lecture he learned by heart during his teenage years, the scolding speech probably holding the same seriousness it had back then. The memory doesn't fail at ripping a fond smile out his lips, followed by the mental note of visiting her next week, before leaving to Thailand. He could make good use of her always soothing words right now.

He sits up, leisurely straightening his spine, trying to avoid the eventual, inevitable crack of his vertebrae. He twists his cellphone between his fingers, its tips absent-mindedly scratching the discreet relief of the side buttons, going through the familiar shapes and nooks. He stares at the black, blocked screen for a moment, the plain colour suddenly working like silence does, sometimes louder than noise itself. That's the current case, the darkness only making the engraved image on his memory look even brighter, sharper, clearer, like a preposterously detailed mental screenshot.

_I miss you._

Fuck, the goosebumps those three words awoke on his flesh that night keep on appearing, not decreasing their intensity in the slightest. And he still doesn't have the slightest idea, either, of how should he answer. Or if he should offer some kind of reply at all, in the first place.

Probably, ignoring it would be doing a favour to both of them. Clearly, the Spaniard hadn't been on his right mind when he had send it. The lack of any sort of explanation afterwards only makes it more evident. He was presumably pretty glad about the fact that Vale had left it unanswered.

And still, he can't keep it out of his head.

Honestly, he has tried everything during this two weeks, aiming for a full schedule, keeping himself busy in any way he could. And during the days it had worked acceptably well. The nights, though, were a completely different story. If Uccio found out how quickly his amount of hours of sleep has dropped in the last month (and who was the cause for that), he would definitely go into a fit o rage. Now that he thinks about it, though, his talk would be pretty similar in tone to his mother's one.

A deep sigh makes it out of his lungs as he stirs the same thoughts on his mind over and over again, as if locked up in a maze he couldn't find the exit of. But, what could he possibly reply to such a statement? Sure, he knows he was important for Marc, once. He knows how much the younger enjoyed spending time with him in the past. He doubts the Honda rider's painfully shinning eyes back then could ever be erased from his memory.

And yet, here he is, desperately trying to conceal the caged _I miss you too_ that longs to break away from the restraints inside him and be released.

 

~*~

 

**_Saturday, 22nd September, 2018_ **

 

He has been completely, absolutely frank and honest with the press today. He just wants it to end as soon as possible.

He doesn't want to remember the last time he had felt this helpless, that awfully frustrated on top a bike. Probably since those unpleasantly vivid years riding a red bike with the Ducati logo on top, that did nothing but stare mockingly at him after every single one of the innumerable crashes he suffered.

But that was different, he was still young then. Ready for another opportunity. This time though, time is running out. Apparently, the only thing that seems to be going fast in his life, at the moment.

Raw disappointment fills his insides like a virus, spreading all over his body, reaching every available surface, fed by the constant images his head keeps on conjuring, on imaging. Eerily realistic images of the grid, how it will look tomorrow, with sixteen riders ahead of him, and the feeling of a heavy, lazy Yamaha under him.

For the first time in years, he doesn't want Sunday to come. He doesn't want to race. Not when he knows that his poor performance will let everyone down. Sometimes he really wonders what pushes people to fill the grandstands clad on neon shirts and yellow caps anymore. Sometimes, he really doesn't get it.

The burning tea currently going down his throat feels surprisingly comforting when he takes a long gulp. To be completely honest, he had contemplated stronger options, but at his age, getting drunk after a lamentable qualifying session doesn't sound acceptable, neither understandable anymore.

He watches his surroundings, the spacious motorhome, his pace sluggish, not really fixing his attention on anything. The walls stand his restless gaze silently. And out of nowhere, an unsettling, extremely opaque silence assaults him.

He has asked Uccio to leave him alone today, needing to deal with the complicated moment on his own, for once, not in the mood to stand his best friend's not amusing jokes, even if their intention is good. He needs to mourn this by himself, but he definitely didn't expect solitude would abruptly feel this stifling, this harsh and suffocating.

Calling her is not an option, either. She would probably hear, but he seriously doubts she would _listen_ to anything he says. It wouldn't be the first time. Sometimes he really wonders what pushed him to want the relationship between them to work so bad. He doesn't want to admit, that it has lost a worrying amount of appeal. The distraction is no longer that welcome. As useful as he wanted it to be. 

He shakes his head, not letting his mind wander that way. Not now. It's not the right moment.

He deep down knows that there would be a queue of people willing to make him some company if he voiced his necessity. But out of nowhere, only a dangerous need escalates up his spine, the longing for someone specifically, alone. And that person doesn't have the feminine frame he's expected to yearn. He must be really tired, cause suddenly it's the only thing he can think of.

_Because you used to be there, always there, a long ago, when I did bad on track and needed, for a brief second, someone to lean on._

_Because no one understands me better than you do._

And that message, that bloody message has unconsciously opened the door again. It has left everything on his hands. Up to him.

In a moment of weakness, his hand reaches for his phone, still lying on the kitchen counter after swearing that he wouldn't look at it tonight, that he would disconnect from everything and everyone.

What a lie.

The violent impulse appears without any previous warning and the biggest mistake is daring to type it, in the first place. It's stupid, but a rush of adrenaline floods him, and before he knows it, his finger has pressed _Send_.

There, ready for his recipient to read it, the grey bubble contains that reply that he should have never given.

He's not thinking clearly, maybe he has hit his head too hard when he crashed this morning, the lack of concentration since last weekend taking its toll on him.

He wasn't allowed to let those words out. And yet, there they are.

He blocks the screen, the haunting black appearing again, and for once, scared to quantify how much he craves an answer.

 

~°~

 

Marc can almost already feel it in the box, looming over them, swimming in the atmosphere he shares with his team. In the air.

Everyone says the title is near, almost there and still, he doesn't want to think about it. He will think about their achievement once it's on their hands, once it's truly done. He, better than anyone else knows how much things can change in the littlest amount of time.

He lets himself fall in the couch, finally allowing his muscles to loose the tension.

"I'm going to dine with Emilio and some of my mechanics, wanna come?" Alex's invitation reaches his ears from the bathroom, the words slightly muffled by the towel his little brother is pressing against his face.

He contemplates over the offer, the positive answer almost leaving his throat out of reflex, but the sincere preference his brain comes up with, surprises him.

He has learned many things in the course of the years racing on the premier class; including the importance of listening to his body, figure out what it might really require. And even though he doesn't like spending time alone with his thoughts (especially lately) Right now he needs calmness, utter tranquillity after the agitated day of qualification. He needs time to get rid off all the pent up pressure and tension accumulated since he put on the leathers this morning.

"No, thanks, I think I will go to bed early today" he declines, wiggling that little bit further in between the pillows, enjoying the soft texture against his battered skin. The pale violet bruises vaguely remind him that he has added another couple of crashes to his personal account this season, the unpleasant detail nearly prompting his features to contort in annoyance. No wonder, given the actual chaotic state his mind is currently in, because his head is definitely not where it should be.

Whatever Alex is telling him afterwards gets diffused on the background, the tone still audible but not the clarity, neither meaning of the words, be it stifled by the loudness of his own nagging thoughts.

It has already been more than a week, since he added another stupidity to the long list started in Argentina, from which nothing good ever gets out of, as he only keeps on messing up the situation with him even more than it already is.

And it's even more stupid, the fact that he's still worrying about it, when the lack of response after confessing one of his most sincere, honest feelings, should be everything he needs to let go of the matter and consider it finished. To understand that there's nothing there to save. Maybe he should take this chance, make the most of this distance now that Valentino couldn't kiss him to stop him from doing so and turn his world upside down. Perhaps this it. And maybe, he should start getting used to it.

What had he expected anyway? That a bunch of words the Italian probably dismissed as false, were going to be enough to magically solve everything? The more he thinks about it, the more nonsensical it becomes.

He stuffs his lungs with oxygen to let it out in a deep breath, wishing it could be enough to cleanse his thoughts, as well. His head is starting to throb, and even though Alex hasn't left yet, he's already glad he has refused the invitation of dinner. Exhaustion takes over him, evident in the way energy seems to be draining down his limbs.

"Good night, then, grandpa" Alex crackles while he leisurely makes his way towards the door, the smell of just applied cologne hanging in the air.

Marc limits himself to release a plain hum, slumping deeper into the fluffy structure of the sofa. He can almost picture the way Alex must be currently rolling his eyes despite the fact that he can't see him from his position.

The slam of the door is followed by a couple of minutes of deafening silence, his even breathing as the only interruption, at least, until the vibration of his phone makes an appearance, echoing against the walls.

He's outstandingly close to ignoring it, not in the mood for another round of messages and meaningless interactions with anyone else. But of course, in the end, the strike of curiosity that is so inherent of his character gets the best of him.

The colourful logo of Instagram appears on the highest spot of the screen, his thumb automatically hovering over it, not even paying attention to see who is it from, before the app is completely opened.

And his heart stops, before nearly jumping up his throat.

For a few seconds it definitely stops functioning, he can feel the pumping being violently ceased.

He sits up like a spring, some pillows falling into the carpet with the brusque motion, any trace of tiredness slipping off his muscles. Just like that.

A light, small tremor takes over his fingers, whose origin he would be absolutely incapable of identifying, be it excitement, perplexity, restlessness or a mixture from each one of them. His capacity of rational thinking gets stuck, invalid and blank.

For a fraction of second he really wonders if they are locked up in a loop, a pattern the universe seems to be following over and over again. Cause every time he feels like cutting out the strings, the italian goes and does something that knocks his world off of its axis, making him feel tremendously lost, what he believed was his destination, in the horizon, no longer there to be seen.

Better late than never, he would have thought if it was anyone else, as he stares at the screen, nearly not blinking, as if the message would disappear if he does. And he can't stop it. He can't put the brakes on the bubbly, dangerously hopeful wave of exhilaration that makes the hair on his flesh bristle abruptly.

It takes longer than he had expected; coming up with something to say that won't embarrass him completely and give away how eager he had been for this. That's why he settles with an uncompromising _Okay. When and where?_

Eventually, his fingertips, unusually clumsy as well, get it right. And he can already feel impatience flowing through his veins, expectant for a positive response he hopes this time will arrive quicker.

He fleetingly glances up at it again, his heartbeat accelerating every single time he does at those words that would have seemed blunt and uncoordinated if the context was different. In this precise moment, though, they are at the verge of miraculous. Who would have thought, that he could loose his head because of a simple _Wanna talk?_ from @valeyellow46

But, no. There is nothing simple about it, about _them_. And even though it hardly answers his matter-of-factly statement, the question appears surprisingly bare. And it's more than enough. Exactly what he needed.

There's nothing simple about it if it comes from Valentino.

 

~*~

 

It is as if it had happened in other lifetime and now his head could only rescue remnants of it, provoking constant sensations of deja vu.

The chosen place is odd, but he understands the reasons behind the election. They can't risk this insane encounter to be exposed in any of their motorhomes. He bets Alex's expression would be hilarious (and he doesn't even want to think about Uccio's, probably briefly articulated before punching him square in the face) but he's definitely not enthusiastic to find out on either case.

He digs his fists as deep as possible into the soft pockets of his sweatshirt, his face carefully hidden under the material of its large hood, grateful for the bit of extra warmth it provides.

Nervous doesn't even begin to cover how agitated he feels. But it's a thoroughly new, strange kind of jitters. His heartbeat is not violent, just that slightly bit more accelerated than normal. His hands don't tremble anymore, their are simply fidgety, restless, overly active, finding a source of entertainment in the most insignificant places; the hem of his sleeve, the strap of his watch or that stray thread until now hidden between the inner seams of his pockets.

Besides, he's unconsciously still waiting for something stupid and extremely unfortunate to happen, to continue the scheme of their seemingly jinxed fate. He almost can't believe it when he finally gets there and he's greeted with the sight of the italian champion with his back against the wall, hands in his jeans and eyes fixed on an undefined point before him. If he's, by any chance, as anxious as Marc himself, the older doesn't give it away.

His palms have started to sweat profusely, the crunchy sound coming out of his soles colliding against the gravel almost too loud in the heavy silence the track holds during the night.

_It has been ages since we did this for the last time._

His breath catches at the base of his throat when he's spotted, lurching his way forward until he's finally a few steps away from Valentino, nerves on edge and knees teetering.

 _He looks good_ , unfairly good, he hazily notes, not able to stop his brain from wandering over that even now. Focus. He needs focus.

His expression is as wary as Marc had expected it to be, accentuated by the shadow his yellow cap casts over his eyes. Even though the sun is long gone by now, the italian hasn't left behind the characteristic neon garment, awfully bright under the lack of illumination this secluded spot of the paddock offers. It has been a smart choice, Marc analyses, it's deserted and consciously hidden and yet, it provides a breathtaking sight of the track. At least, in the light of day. Now that both of their watches indicate it being past half past eleven, the outline is mostly swallowed by darkness.

For a moment he doesn't have the slightest clue of how should he act, the possibility of a handshake seeming ironic, at the verge of comical, immediately discarded, for obvious reasons. He's not willing to go through another refusal.

"Hey" he eventually manages to croak, air leaving his lungs in a wheeze when the lame greeting is uttered. To be completely honest, he has been silently craving this moment since Argentina and still, he can't think of a better possible reaction. What could he possibly say in such a messed up, delicate moment between them?

"Ciao" the low reply comes a few seconds later than he expected, as if Valentino was weighing the exact tone and nuance it holds before letting it slide off his tongue.

And yet, he won't look at Marc, gaze fixed on his trainers. They don't need a press conference neither a room full of journalists for that to remain the same. And he's tired of it, whatever kind of ignorance or annoyance the italian tries to portray with it definitely absurd and not necessary when it's just the two of them.

The atmosphere is charged, he can feel it, the thick silence hanging between them speaks volumes, chaotic with the potential of so many unsaid things.

Marc rummages inside his head for something to say that won't make this long-awaited conversation get off on the wrong foot. And it's not an easy task, when every idea revolves about the topic they are desperately trying to avoid. In the end, he sticks to a safe bet.

"Sorry your qualifying was shitty" he sighs warily, finally daring to take a few steps forward to copy Valentino's posture. The brick wall is cold against his spine, hard against his skin, but his own comfort is his last concern right know, not the slightly bit important when he's here, when they are both here, cautious with every word or movement executed as if they were holding a bomb about to explode at the most insignificant slip.

"I didn't asked you to come so I could drown my sorrows" the Yamaha rider chortles without the smallest hint of humour, the normally perfectly masked frustration, for once, surfacing evident between the syllables. Right, perhaps bringing up that the Japanese brand he rides with, is going through their worst crisis ever wasn't the smartest move, after all. Marc throws his head back, tempted to smash it against the solid, unyielding expansion of bricks that little bit harder. He should really turn on the filter.

"Of course not" he mutters under his breath, gulping forcefully despite the fact that there's nothing on his dry mouth to swallow. His now trembling fingers jolt up to his hair, tensely combing the longer strands to occupy himself with a harmless motion "Why, then? Because I can't figure it out anymore"

_Do you want to talk about Argentina? About my drunken spectacle in Le Mans? About our making out moment at Silverstone or about the way you publicly stepped over my aim of peace at Misano? I lost the ability to guess what you could want from me a long ago._

"I think it's pretty evident" Valentino states, his surprisingly firm tone catching Marc absolutely unguarded, as the older detaches his back off the wall to gaze at him directly. _Finally_ "We can't go on like this"

His chest tightens at the sound of that, the intensity of his stare burning his flesh from head to toe. It's one of the few things that hasn't changed in all these years. Since they met, the way Valentino makes him feel when he nails his blue eyes on his being, it's something else.

But, on an objective level, he agrees. Whatever that it's currently happening there is racing dangerously fast, hazardously close to its limit. He doesn't know about the older rider, but Marc it's certain he won't able to endure this internal tension for longer. He's doing his best to conceal it in front of the critical eyes they are constantly exposed to, to keep it locked down the deepest part of him, where all his thoughts scream the name of the man he has beside him at the moment. But when that pairs up with the thousand worries haunting him every race weekend, the cocktail of emotions is very close to being overwhelming, unbearable.

"No, we can't" he agrees before inhaling profoundly. The problem is that he seems to be incapable of coming up with another solution. He has tried it all, and he has been pathetically left down every single time. He doesn't know any other way of apologizing, what else should he try to convey how sorry he is. For _everything_ "But I don't know what to do anymore. So you tell me"

_Please, please tell me._

It has been proved that his intuition is no longer reliable when the italian is around. This time he has nothing left but the option of asking about it point blank, mincing no words at all.

"Certainly not messaging me at four in the morning" the remark catches him off guard even though he had imagined that the matter would come up at some point of the talk. But not like this, not this blatantly. Not when he's still so unsure about being able to deal with it with a levelled head "You should be more careful with alcohol and what you do under the effects of it, it could become an issue and get you in some serious trouble. Thought you had learned the lesson after what happened in Franc-"

His stomach lurches, a knot tied at the base of his larynx, almost choking every attempted word before it has the chance to get out. He can't believe that after all he has done and said, after all those times he has groveled to him, Valentino still doesn't seem to get how he feels about him. As much as he tries, he can't wrap his head around the fact that he insists on seeing everything Marc does as an act.

He has never been good at pretending, he wishes he was. It would liberate him from the emotional strings that still squeeze his heart every time the older does as much as fleetingly glance his way. How he wishes neither of this was true, a farce devoid of suffering. If only that could be possible.

"I wasn't drunk"  
  
The plainly sincere statement falls like a bomb between them, that one they have been cautiously trying to stop from being dropped during the whole night. And it's nothing short of an explosion, destroying the not entirely calm ambient they had built until then. The silence, this time, does indeed weigh a ton, as if the heaviness Marc had been supporting on his shoulders had slid into the air, flooding the atmosphere on its wake.

And his mind suddenly transports him to the podium celebration in Misano. To those first hours of Monday, when, instead of celebrating like his team deserved, he couldn't get _him_ out of his head. But he had made sure he kept himself from alcohol. He learns from his mistakes, even if some of that bolt of courage, what pushed him to write down one of his purest sentiments and hit the sending button, lingers, forcing him to speak what's on his mind, to rationalize that it will be useless, a waste of time, otherwise. He's burnt out of feigning that it's all okay when it comes to Valentino. Thoroughly tired.

He probably couldn't have brought himself to look at Valentino after confessing it, if he wasn't this exhausted. What's the point on keeping it to himself, anyway? What's there to protect, when the older has always had the power to crush his emotions or increase them tenfold with the smallest action?

It's curious, but not even when he's on track and thousands of eyes focus on him, he feels this examined. His goosebumps never appear this suddenly. But how can't they not, when Valentino stares at him as if he had grown a second head, as if discovering him for the first time.

But now, he has really run out of ways to keep the conversation alive. Maybe it's right moment to finish it, though, even if they haven't talked at all about the issues they were there to discuss, in the first place. Maybe they will never get to do it.

He lowers his eyes to the ground, fixing them to the oddest shaped little stone he can find, but without really seeing it. His mind is far away, like it always seems to be when the talks are about the italian. Maybe he should get far away from him, as well. Maybe it's the only chance he has to heal. Without further thought, he buries his hands down the warm pockets of his sweatpants, his feet ready to start taking steps forward.

"I'm sorry for Misano" His body stops on its own, while his brain tries to figure it out if he had imagined or Valentino had really let out an apology, desperately trying to discern if it's another dream of his. However, he doesn't need to elaborate it further. He knows perfectly well what the older means by Misano "But I don't regret what I did. I didn't want it to be like that. I'm tired of being in the eye of the hurricane. As I said, our problems are ours, just something between you and me. It's always been like that. We are racers, not celebrities in a tabloid. We have never been that"

Marc straightens up his spine, his feet nailed to the floor, muscles stiff and rigid, heart roughly hammering against his ribs.

"What have we been then?" He blurts out as soon as it crosses his mind, twisting his neck slightly in the direction in which he knows Valentino is standing, seeing through him. He can almost feel his penetrating eyes burning is nape, his skin prickling. But he's equally anxious to find out the answer, to find out what's really on the older's head, what does he meant to him, how he feels.

"We used to be friends, remember?" this time, the feeble tone the Yamaha rider uses is far from the firm, steady one he had applied to his sentences before. This time it's fuelled by feelings, Marc can almost sense them when he turns to lock their gazes together. But his insides contract painfully, a weight he can't name settling on the pitch of his stomach, throat closing, suffocating his will to breath.

"We have never been just friends and you know that" he chokes, letting truth slip into his suddenly terribly hoarse voice, while awfully vivid memories plague his mind. Recollections of looks he can't bury and talks he will never forget.

_Not for me, at least. You were never just my friend, never just another fellow rider. You were much more than that since the moment I saw you for the first time._

"Things change. So do we" Valentino states, regaining some of his composure, his clenched jaw being the only proof of the tension he might feel.

And yeah, things have changed. Brutally. That's the understatement of the year. But it shouldn't hurt as much as it does. He should be already over it. He's no longer a teenager with a crush. It stopped being just that a long ago.

"Okay" Marc nods flatly, as offhandedly as his stingy eyes and narrow breathing tunnel allow. The brief, dull response at the verge of being too much. He wishes he could come up with something better, with something that could convey all the things he wants to express so bad. But it gets stuck, held up by the terribly realistic, nagging thought that this will never, ever be what he wants it to be.

_Because you have her, and yet, all I can think of when I see you it's how bad I want to kiss you again._

"But, even though it will never be like it was years ago, I don't want this to get worse. I'm tired of arguing with you" and this time, a hint of emotion reflects physically on Valentino's features, as well. He can see it in his eyes, and still Marc can't articulate a reaction, his system frozen, the it won't be enough for me, anyway, still clogging his will to talk "And believe it or not; I miss you too"

He's sure he will have that moment, those words, on repeat behind his closed eyelids every time he blinks for the next couple of weeks. He instinctively nips so hard on his lower lip, he's this close to drawing blood. It does something to him, looking deep into those blue eyes he knows by heart and knowing that what has been said it's honest, knowing certainly that a minuscule part of his own feelings are reciprocated. It makes his head develope a crippling headache while his heart misses severe beats.

Valentino's voice is strained, as if the thought had been voiced without his consent, which only prompts it to feel more real, it's meaning more trustworthy. Which by the way, makes everything much worse, because now he really, really wants to get close to the italian rider, hit by a forgotten wave of affection he used to live with daily when they were on good terms. But now, it surges unexpectedly and without warning, paralyzing his limbs all of a sudden.

And then, as if the mixture of actions he's witnessing wasn't overpowering enough, Valentino truly smiles at him, for the first time in three years and it feels dangerously close to finally getting a gulp of air after a long time being underwater.

He can't tear his gaze off the older's, not when it takes him back in time, not when the sparks are back, tugging the corners of his own mouth up. Because he can't bring himself to fight it, not when the offer of peace is so yearned and tempting.

Nonetheless, before he can think of what's next, Valentino reaches the rear pocket of his jeans, and he can only watch and see how his nimble hand comes back into his range of vision holding a dark blue object that he needs a few seconds to identify as a cap. A Michelin cap.

 _His_ cap.

He hadn't bothered to think about again it until this very moment. The immediate explanation his brain came up with consisted on forgetting it at his box or any other unsuspected place, that night in Le Mans. He never pays too much attention to them, anyway. But his memory hadn't reminded him, until now, that he indeed appeared on Valentino's door with the garment placed on the top of his head. His cheeks flare up within seconds, overwhelmed with remnants of that embarrassing episode, when the Yamaha rider decreases the amount of distance between their bodies, flipping it between his fingers.

"You forgot this a few months ago" the mumble makes the hair on Marc's skin stand on end, Valentino's accent getting thicker than normally with each uttered word. And he adores it.

The touch of the familiar weigh on top of his hair wakes him from his brief reverie, although he can just stand there when the italian carefully places the accessory on his head, tilting his head in that endearing way of his, until he seems satisfied with the result "Don't think you'll need it, though. You'll get a new one tomorrow, either way"

In normal conditions, that would have been enough to surround him in a hurricane of plain incredulity. However, if he thought that would be it, he's proved wrong. Again.

The hem of the cap grazes the skin of his forehead and scalp when being rotated around, the visor now hanging over the back of his neck, like it tends to do when he's on the highest step of the podium.

And it allows him to look up at Valentino without obstacles, directly, intoxicated by the terribly familiar scent he oozes.

"Good luck for tomorrow, even though you won't need it" he barely registers the message of wished fortune, he's too occupied hating himself for not being able to react at all when there is tingling warmth against his forehead, until it takes him a bunch of seconds to realize that the area has been kissed.

 _Kissed_.

A stray display of affection. Coming from Valentino. Gestures that once used to be normal.

Done willingly.

Real.

His mouth feels like lead, swallowing suddenly seeming an impossible task, his heart as if about to fly out of his chest when the italian's shoulder playfully bumps against his as he passes by, his scent lingering even when he's already a few meters away. And it's torturing, how many emotions and reminiscences that damned fragrance evokes of that kiss he hasn't forgotten. But what totally throws him off is that this one, this chaste, innocent peck, almost feels even more special.

"Vale" he eventually gets to rasp, the hoarse nickname simultaneously feeling strangely foreign and inexplicably familiar on his tongue, at the same time. More because of the lack of use rather than inadequate "Good luck to you too"

It surprises him even, unsettles absolutely, how much he means it, how much he wants Valentino to have a good race. He's suddenly engulfed by a peculiar jolt of enthusiasm, entirely, like the fan he was not so long ago, cheering tirelessly for his favourite rider. For _him_.

Nevertheless, he doesn't get a verbal reply, but the low chuckle lost in the nightly air is enough to make him feel giddy, a strange but unexpectedly pleasant haze installing on the back of his neck while he presses the almost forgotten cap harder against his head.

_He kept it._

He kept it. And fuck, that penetrating, last look he has received tastes so much like hope, like possibilities, like innumerable chances and potential where everything looked utterly, completely dark before.

Maybe it won't be enough. Maybe it won't ever be what he deeply wants, he's extremely aware of that, but for the time being, it feels like an achievement of some sort. Cause he can feel that he hasn't been ignored, neither refused this time.

Because, finally, it tastes like forgiveness.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm extremely sorry for the delayed update. This was supposed to be posted during last weekend but I have been awfully busy, sorry. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and as usual, any kind of feedback is really welcome and appreciated. 
> 
> Love you <3

**_Buriram, Thailand, 2018_ **

 

Marc's mood is ridiculously good this weekend. He's not even bothered by the prospect of an awfully long flight, with its corresponding queues, lack of sleep, infuriatingly long waits and absurd amounts of time spent on the road. No, the almost perpetual sentiment of content he has been flooded with since that night at Aragon doesn't leave, it doesn't allow itself to be dampened, even when he's standing under the suffocatingly bright sun of Bangkok, with sweat dripping under the surface of his leathers and the frenetic rhythm of the mad traffic passing by him.

The worst thing, though, is the fact that the emotion, the way his heart tightens every time a memory projects behind his eyelids, is terribly familiar. Makes him almost feel twenty again; rookie, naive and completely smitten with certain italian rider. It's impressively close to the way he felt after his first true conversation with Valentino, the words repeating inside his head for days, his heartbeat quickening at the mere recollection of those eyes on him.

Nonetheless, he has already scolded himself multiple times these past days, more than he could actually count. Because it wasn't as if they were friends again and everything had been forgotten.

 _As if._ If only it was that easy.

The idea alone seems absolutely preposterous, but there is some kind of foolish faith nesting at the back of his head, spreading slowly but securely, overwhelming him at times, when his rational thinking brings its guard down and it lets it be. It's some sort of unnamed certainty. The one that makes him believe that whatever he has to say, will be listened and received.

And he can't help it once he's (finally) peacefully sprawled over the mattress of his hotel bed after the exhausting day of promotional events. He would be utterly unable of repressing the hazardously intense need to do it.

It's short and casual, or at least, he thinks so, but it conveys the assaulting necessity to communicate with him, again, that plagues his insides. He hadn't found an excuse good enough on the course of the week. But now he has one. As lame as it might have seemed at first.

_Already on Thailand?_

He blocks his phone as soon as the pale grey bubble appears, the bunch of words now ready to be read.

He honestly has no idea of where the lines between them might be now, how extensive licenses are, but he has to try. _You don't win if you don't risk_ , that has always been his mantra on track. And it didn't turn out bad until now. It has always provided him with pretty decent results, to say the least.

With this, it doesn't have to be different.

One thing he knows for sure, though, he hasn't been this excited for Thursday's press conference in years.

 

~°~

 

It's the strangest race weekend Valentino remembers in a long time; going to a barely known circuit, a new territory. The uncertainty already pairing up with the not so positive sensations of the winter test they realized months ago. Unfortunately, his mind has already got used to the frustration and lack of expectations. He doesn't know what's worse; suffering the weekends devoid of options or getting familiar with it. _Is this how the riders usually occupying the last positions feel all the time?_ And if so, he really wonders how do they manage to cope with it.

He throws his head against the leather backseat of the car that fights to make his way through the crowded city. The way to the hotel feels as painfully slow as a race on top of his current Yamaha, Uccio's attempts of conversation not as welcome and distracting as they use to be. He'll probably feel bad about it later, but right know he simply can't bring himself to chuckle at his jokes and stray antics. Maybe there's tiredness to blame, the regret of not taking that necessary nap on the plane that he should have gone for. Apparently, the stubborn, constant refusal of his mind to switch off was stronger than he thought.

He feels his phone vibrating momentarily on the pocket of his grey sweatpants, the ones he only uses for traveling, baggy and comfortable enough to make the process a little bit less unpleasant. He sighs, deeply, his lungs taking as much air as they can before letting it out, the heavy exhalation perfectly audible in the reduced space of the vehicle.

It's probably her again, he anticipates. And it irks him, but not her attention neither her attempts of contact and communication in the distance, but the fact that his reaction to it is no longer carrying the sentiment of fulfilment and excitement it used to hold. His belly does no longer tingle at the idea of talking to her. And it's just another worry added to pile of concerns pent up inside his chest. His feelings for her should have gotten stronger with each passing day. Why does he feel them weakening at alarming speed, instead? Why can't he act like he should and be as in love with her as he would like to be?

He leisurely unlocks the screen, his fingers not as nimble and fast as they tend to be due to the throbbing headache he has started to develop, messing up the secret combination a few times before getting it right.

The next thing he should add to the bunch of emotions he should never allow himself to feel, assaults him at the sight of the Instagram notification, nearly prompting him to drop the device. It's completely unacceptable; the way his stomach executes somersaults at his message, and how the disappointment he wasn't ready to admit at the thought of getting another of her texts, fades without any kind of warning, cheekily replaced by an obnoxious wave of unexpected excitement, that makes him feel even more deplorable.

_Already on Thailand?_

And yet, the corners of his mouth lift against his will, his lower lip gently bending when he absent-mindedly bites it. He has never felt as glad, as entranced by Marc's impulsive nature as he is now. His conclusions after their encounter in Aragon couldn't have been more confusing, the events that might follow it, even more unpredictable. But he could never deny that he likes the way Marc has interpreted it. Responding to his movements it's way easier, less exposing than initiating them. However, it doesn't mean he's going to throw the opportunity away just like that.

_On my way to the hotel_

He keeps it sincere and concise, deliberately ignoring the flutter on the pit of his stomach at the thought of them messasing each other. Again. After three years. And he's more than positive that this time, as he said in Misano, he wants to keep it exclusively for themselves. Enough spectacle. He doesn't need the press to know, neither the fans. Absolutely unnecessary.

As unnecessary as the bolt that escalates up his spine when the reply comes, impressively quickly.

_Good flight?_

And just like that, that easily, and with such a simple, relaxed conversation, Valentino can physically feel Marc crawling his way under his skin once again. Like only _he_ knows how to.

"Looks like someone is missing someone" the phone nearly jumps out of his reach for the second time when Uccio's voice breaks through his ears brusquely. His brain needs a brief moment to analyse and comprehend what has been said while his nerves toss and wriggle irregularly "Relax, you'll see her again in a couple of days"

His best friend pats his shoulder firmly as Valentino articulates one of those laughs devoid of honesty, but undeniably relieved when Uccio's assumption alleviates some of the sudden pressure that came out of nowhere. But guilt appears again, not hindered in any way. If anything, stronger than minutes ago, twisting and knotting his guts uncomfortably.

He's right about the missing bit. That is an understatement. But he seriously doubts his friend knows who is it about. He would probably have a heart attack if he did. That, Valentino is certainly sure about.

 

 ~*~

 

The press conference is weird. There's nothing particularly foreign about it if he thinks about objectively, something that, for the record, he can't, for sure, do right now. No when _he's_ concerned.

Not greeting Marc publicly is kind of normal now, an habit. The only difference today, is how bad his body craves some kind of physical contact between them, and how hard ignoring that impulse is becoming with each second that passes.

But that is forbidden, one of the multiple rules he imposed himself, as much as looking directly at him. The uncertainty of how he would react if he did must remain as a mystery that he's not ready to solve in a room full of nosy journalists.

His seat is beside his, as usual, something he has never been able to decide if he feels positive or negative about. Rins, at the other side, will provide him with as much of a good distraction as any other rider could. He ask meaningless questions when he settles down on the hard chair, the lame _how are you_ not missing. Later, he'll presumably feel terrible about the poor amount of true attention he puts on the young Suzuki rider's answers. If only the scent coming from his right and getting on his nostrils wasn't that obnoxiously distracting.

Fortunately, and aside from his internal battles, it develops as a fairly normal conference; questions are mercilessly fired and he tries to focus on them, which it's not doing any favour to his already sunk mood and battered ego, either. His speech tints with a more pessimistic nuance than usual, the _this weekend will be a shitty one_ , not said explicitly but surely hidden between much more correct, diplomatic words.

However, today, Marc's stare burns.

He can almost feel it against his skin, setting his flesh on fire as he speaks, not stammering becoming a true miracle when he knows perfectly well that he's being observed that intensely. The worst thing, though, it's how forceful the urge of gazing back is. He discovered it the other day at Aragon, he hadn't realized how fucking much he had missed looking into Marc's eyes, to be aware of and explore the new glints that weren't there years ago.

He hadn't realized until this very moment, either, how bad he wants his phone to light up later, the notification feeling more like the confession that Marc is thinking about him rather than the warning it should be. How bad he wants it to be just the two of them, like weeks ago.

He doesn't even know how that could turn out, if it would be as awkward as he imagines it will be. But the image alone it's tempting. He feels like it, longs for it, the appeal of a little meeting (those they used to look for all the time in the past, back then, when everything was easy) increases alarmingly.

His stomach stirs when their shoulders brush lightly as they stand up, the distance until this moment separating their bodies not correctly measured by either of them. The familiar cologne hits his senses again, the fingers on his hand contract, relax and clench again involuntarily, and he wonders, really wonders, if Marc's presence will ever stop fucking up the feelings he has been so careful about until now.

It's nothing new; that the answer is nowhere to be seen.

 

~*~

**_Buriram, Thailand_ **

_6th October, 2018_

 

Much to his disappointment (something shouldn't feel, to begin with in the first place) there is nothing but a few playful words on Saturday afternoon, right after the press conference, a cheeky reference to their close times on the qualifying session, the closer they have been in months when talking about speed.

He has just stepped out the shower when the soft sound of knocking resonates on the hotel room and filters through the tiled walls of the bathroom. He picks up the towel in a rush, muscles jerking forward violently as he mutters a low curse, the time it takes for his hands to get rid off the remaining wetness feeling longer than ever. Whether is Uccio or Luca, they both are always remarkably inopportune.

The bare skin of his uncovered chest protests when hit by the lower temperature out of the foggy bathroom as he quickly fidgets with the elastic of the sweatpants he has put on within seconds. He gets a firm hold of the door handle, ready to glare at his best friend or little brother, ready to scold them for nearly interrupting his shower time. The problem is that when he brusquely pulls the door open neither of the expected people is there.

He's completely speechless, the prepared words dying before they get to leave his throat. Because Marc is looking back at him and the smirk that takes over his lips at the sight he has found himself in front of makes Valentino's insides twist abruptly.

_That small, fucking bastard._

His first impulse is to cross his arms over his chest. He doesn't. Not that they would cover much, anyway. His muscles remain frozen, any kind of reaction paralyzed before being executed. Marc's intense stare unables him to do so.

Valentino gulps, willing his body to do something logical. To move, at least, be it slamming the door in his face or stepping aside so Marc can come in. He really doesn't know which one of them he wants to happen in this moment.

"Sorry, I should have asked before dropping by" Marc lets out lowly, the tone almost foreign on his voice, and giving away perfectly that he's everything but sorry about his surprising appearance. If his badly concealed smirk is anything to go by, or the disguised once over covering his flesh with goosebumps. And Valentino can't decide if it should make him feel flattered, embarrassed or both of them at once.

"Yeah, you should have" he manages to push out of his mouth, his bare feet moving on their own, leaving a clear path before him that he hopes it's conveying enough.

The younger catches the hint instantly, and if Valentino didn't know better, he would swear his trademark smile widens, the glint on those eyes getting even more mischievous than usual. Some tension he hadn't even noticed before leaves Marc's broad shoulders after the positive reaction. The only slight trace of uncertainty on the Honda rider's side. Now that he thinks about it, coming here probably wasn't an easy decision to make. And the fact that he did, anyway, makes something flutter inside Vale's belly.

"Emilio is staying on this hotel too. I was on my way out and well, I wante-"

"How did you know my room number?" He cuts the Spaniard's explanation with the first question that pops up on his, until then, inactive mind, eager to find out what has lead him here that easily.

Years ago, it would have been easy. He would have texted the digits to that number he knew by heart immediately after putting a foot on the room. Now, though, the query is incredibly mysterious and unpredictable.

_How the hell have you done it?_

"I saw Luca on the hall" he makes quick work of explaining, as if that bit of information hadn't thrown Valentino off completely. That fucker he calls a brother better has a good explanation for this, for sharing that information that randomly. Not that he's upset at Marc being here. Quite the opposite, to be honest. But Luca knows nothing about their encounter on Aragon. As far as he should know, they are not even on speaking terms. Sure, he had expressed his opinion about the matter before, but he didn't know he was actually that desperate for them to sort things out, too. "But, if you're busy, I'll just leav-"

That flash of disappointment it's not something he is used to see on the younger's face, either. The nervous tint his voice adopts and the speed his irises pick up when scanning his surroundings, only show that sort uncertainty that has become uncomfortably usual on Marc's stance while being on Valentino's presence.

And he hates it.

He wants to feel the warmth he used to feel when the kid looked at him with shinning eyes. He loved thinking that he was the reason for Marc's evident content, not the one to blame for his constant distress.

"No, no, it's just...I didn't expect it. That's all" he almost grimaces at the plain instability of his words.

_In fact, it scares me; how much I wanted you to come, how much I like seeing you voluntarily here._

When Marc has turned him into an incoherent, rambling mess, he has no idea. But this couldn't go on like this. If he wanted to fix things with the other rider he needed a levelled head and getting his shit together.

But goodness, how hard that is when he receives on of those smiles, flashed directly at him, when Marc is standing a few meters away from him, on his dark Honda sweater and faded jeans (those he's definitely not trying to check out). He notices how his posture has relaxed again after his reassurance, how those unfairly dark eyes regain their vivid, playful glow, effectively making Valentino remember that he's still half naked.

He usually doesn't feel self-conscious at all, it has never been a truly important matter to him. And still, right now, he can't help but feel warmth racing its way up his veins, spreading from the back of his neck all over his cheekbones. Of course, if someone in the entire world could make him blush, that would be Marc.

"I'll be back in a second" he announces, vaguely nodding towards the bathroom with his chin, the sentence probably more rushed than he had intented, his slight anxiety palpable.

"Oh, don't worry, don't do it on my account. I don't mind the view" Marc lets out with impressive nonchalance, amused smirk in place as he lets himself fall on the couch, as if he hadn't made Valentino's brain violently collapse once again.

_Make yourself at home._

He must be hallucinating. When the fuck had they moved from barely acknowledging each other's presence to joking? _Flirting?_ He doesn't know which one is even more ridiculously improbable.

One think he knows for sure, though, Marc's capacity of adaptation to any kind of situation it's outstanding. He's fascinated by how the younger seems to know the perfect way to lead the strangest atmosphere in the path he wants it to go.

He shakes his head, for a split second, tempted to leave the upper part of his body as it is, just to see Marc's reaction, to tease him. Fortunately, his brain clicks in place just in time, saving him before he does something that absurdly crazy.

Back into the secluded space of the bathroom, he throws on a loose hoodie, immediately after takes a hold of the closest towel to dry off the remaining drops of water on his hair. He tries to ignore his reflection on the mirror as he does so, hating how critic he suddenly feels towards the image staring back at him. Specially when he knows that the cause of that is at the other side of the door. _You have a girlfriend, for God's sake._ The unnerving cocktail of emotions he feels in this very moment because of Marc's presence here, right now, is unacceptable in every sense.

Back on the large room, he finds the younger lazily scrolling down the screen of his phone, which he immediately switches off once he registers Valentino making his way there, gracing him with all his attention.

He lets himself fall down on the sofa, as well, but the distance separating him and Marc is consciously measured, this time. It would bee easier to choose the perfect way to act if he knew the purpose of all this, if he knew what Marc is looking for. Because his own brain has been nothing but a chaotic mess for the last couple of months. Being cordial and civilized is a start, even if it's just privately. But from there, he's absolutely lost.

"You know, I really hope it didn't bother you" the Honda rider mutters, his tone suddenly so low that Valentino's not sure it has been said out loud at all "That I asked Luca about your room. I just wanted to...Well, I wasn't lying when I told you I missed our night talks"

The clarification follows quickly behind his previous statement. Rushed. The younger must have misunderstood the hint of confusion he has for sure given away.

"It's okay" his voice comes out obnoxiously strained as he gazes deeply into Marc's bottomless eyes, shreading and analysing thoroughly the sincerity each syllable the Spaniard has voiced, holds. And he is able to see it when their gazes connect and hesitation flashes across his features.

He seems calm, careless even, but he knows the kid well enough to catch that he's deep down restless. And it provides him with a new kind of tranquillity, aware that he's not the only one freaking out about all this.

And the thought of Marc missing him makes his stomach revolve, again. It's good to know that he was able to make the Spaniard feel that good, once. Honestly, he misses those too. And even though the atmosphere now is pretty close to how it used to be then, it doesn't come even close.

He rescues the memories from the back of his mind; endless nights peacefully sprawled on some couch, watching a movie or simply talking until dawn. If he concentrates enough, he can still feel the pleasant weight of Marc's legs extended over his lap, or the light pressure of his head on his shoulder, the subtle graze of their hands, fleeting, tempting touches, never bold enough to go for what they both surely wanted. The situation now is painfully similar, and at the same time, completely different. Something held him back then, and something holds him back now.

_I can't have my heart crushed by you again._

And still, he can't let go of Marc. He can't even think about it without feeling a hole carving inside his chest.

The key is evidently about finding a medium intermediate point. The perfect balance. And to find out what that can be, he needs to try.

Give it another go and hope that the boy didn't throw it all away this time. Hope that neither of them will. Because as much as he doesn't want to admit it, Marc is not the only one to blame for all of it. He has fucked it all up just as much.

_Time to fix it up, it seems._

Without giving it a second thought, he relaxes, leaning that bit closer to Marc, secretly enjoying the sparkle his change of attitude, provokes on the younger's face.

"Already planning the title celebration?" He mentions as offhandedly as he can, accompanying the words with a light smile he hadn't showed Marc in a long time. The easy one they used to share all the time. Besides, he finds himself genuinely interested on the other rider's personal state, see how Marc is truly doing, what's hidden under that almost perennial laugh.

He used to be really good at that.

"No yet. Anything can happen" he replies, shrugging while one of his foot loses contact with the floor to rest on the edge of the table. He can nearly see the pent up tension fleeing from Marc's body.

"Please" he can't keep inside the snort at the Spaniard's statement, voicing what most people thinks every time the Repsol rider dismisses the topic. The season is pretty much finished. _For me it was already over a bunch of months ago_. And he knows Marc is aware of that, too. "You don't even believe that yourself"

He even allows himself to playfully poke Marc's side with the tip of his socked toe. The most shocking thing, though, it's how natural it is, impulsive and not forced in any way. Valentino is not even ashamed to admit a wave of accomplishment fills him when a surprisingly clear laugh swims through the air. _How I missed getting those out of you._

"I don't want to think about it, to be honest. When it happens, it happens" that, he can believe, though. It evokes a nearly nostalgic feeling inside him. _How was it like? Being about to become the world champion?_

"At this rate, you'll end up getting used to it" he comments, half jokingly, half seriously. Marc's possible number of championships in the future can get ridiculously surreal.

"You haven't" Marc's quick response catches him unguarded, the directness of his look unsettling "You know better than anyone else that one can't never get enough of winning"

A soft smile tugs at the corner of his own lips, the dangerously overwhelming feeling of how in tune they are when it comes to racing warms him up unexpectedly quickly.

"True. That's why I am still here" he concedes, twirling his earring between his fingertips, looking for something to distract himself with when Marc starts tracing criminally casual patterns with his fingertips on Valentino's stretched out leg.

And it's like turning back in time, after that. Words flow easily, and yet the conversation keeps on getting more deep, more serious. The complicated issues remain untouched, even though he suspects both of them are aware that they will have to take care of them at some point. But not tonight. He doesn't think they are ready for that yet.

He's happy, at ease for once, just hearing about Marc's day in Bangkok, sharing his own feelings on track, later, feeling fully _listened_ , comprehended, for the first time in months.

Tomorrow's race and the uneasiness it brings along, blends on the back of his head, for a while. And he simply enjoys the current moment, enjoys the younger's presence. Enjoys the fact that no one else can enter their minuscule bubble, that none else knows it exists at all. It's their thing, it has always been.

It's nearly midnight when Marc stands up, boosted by a couple of calls from a worried Alex. And Valentino doesn't want it to end, not yet. He notices that both of them stretch the distance between the couch and the door to the maximum, their steps unnecessarily slow.

"Good night, Vale" the kid whispers before squeezing his wrist gently, the caress awakening all kind if reactions inside Valentino. It's nearly overwhelming, how irresistible the desire of kissing Marc again, is. Specially when he looks so tempting under the dim light of the room. Specially when he looks up at Valentino like that, with those eyes. Specially when he swiftly licks his lips in that gesture so typical of him.

 _Stop_. He chides his own being before it does something awfully stupid. _Don't ruin what you have just built._

"Good night, bambino" he mutters back before closing the door, the nickname warm and familiar on his tongue, like an old item used again after being stored for a long time. And he wasn't the only one missing it, it seems, if the way Marc's grin widens if a good indicator of it.

He goes to sleep with the image of the sparkling look of the poleman and future world champion still fresh in his head, hours later. He has left but his presence remains on the room like a trail.

It's and odd beginning, he must admit and the word _friends_ is something he definitely doesn't want to hear a single thing about. For now, it seems unreachable and undesirable. But apparently, there is something undefined there, between them, that he desperately needs back.

He can't deny, either, that the prospect of three consecutive races has grown in appeal significantly.

 _As long as I can get moments like this one again._ And maybe it's enough, so far. Maybe they have gotten a glimpse of the solution.

Maybe the first step to change the complicated situation is to make everything easy again. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, loves! Hope you enjoy <3

**_Twin Ring Motegi, Japan_ **

_Thursday, 18th October, 2018_

 

Marc is sure it shows on his face.

Perhaps that's why he's trying to remain as calm as possible since he put a foot on Japan. To smile serenely when he receives the excited looks of his mechanics, to ignore the winks Alex and Jose dedicate him and the high expectations Honda's bosses convey through their always aloof facade. Anything to conceal the absolute mess his mind has become. His thoughts are rather chaotic, his different emotions swirling around like a hurricane, reaching diverse peaks in the curse of an hour. An authentic rollercoaster.

He's glad the sponsoring and professional compromises has kept him busy these past days, plus, it allowed him to spend some time with Dani, as well. And even though he tries to keep the inevitable thought as far as possible, his teammate's imminent goodbye has been obnoxiously present this week, closer than it was months ago. Suffocating. He can already tell he'll miss him badly. Better make the most of his company while he can.

Unfortunately, that's only one out of his multiple concerns and on Thursday afternoon, he's completely honest when asked about his state. He has butterflies on his stomach, indeed. He could become _world champion_. Again. _This weekend._

The thought is nearly on repeat inside his head. Surreal. Even though he has already gone through it before. But he wasn't kidding when he talked to Valentino about it. He's positive he'll never, ever, get used to it. He sighs, the air heavy on his lungs as he scans the bottled up room. He idly acknowledges the well known faces and stray flashes, the cameras no longer disturbing, no longer intimidating. Familiar, now. However, his mind is somewhere else, lost in the mix of memories carefully stored after Buriram.

And there's the other matter that is violently agitating his emotional stability.

 _Valentino_.

Who else?

Honestly, he would have liked him to be in the press conference. He's oddly impressed by the strength of the wave of disappointment that hits him out of nowhere when he notices his absence. Disgustingly close to missing him by his side, even if the italian wouldn't spare a single glance at him. At least, not when publicly surrounded. At least not after this week.

It's something he definitely shouldn't feel.

At all.

He wants to hit his chest repeatedly every time he does, until his heart stops sending him forbidden signals, unwelcome chills, until its irregular beating comes to a halt and gets its regular rhythm back.

To say he has been emotionally struggling this past days in an understatement, and not only because of the title. He's at the verge of snorting out loud. Compared to his blossoming feelings towards the italian, he's pretty much wrapped his head around the idea of winning the championship, by now.

But when he inevitably recalls the way Valentino makes his guts jump, the way his insides get stuffed with fluttering excitement whenever his body intercepts the older rider's one close, his head shortcircuits. And it's evidently not longer available for rational focusing.

The conflict that started as a little spark at the back of his mind the moment the Yamaha rider decided to reply his reckless message, the moment he decided they could try again, it's gradually becoming a flame. He blatantly wonders if he'll able to do it. If he'll be able to be his friend.

Just his _friend_.

The word is nearly sour on his tongue. Acid, but awfully true, with no alternative, no other plausible option in sight. For once he has been too slow, he's been late and now he's beyond reach, completely inaccessible.

His fingers close around his phone, twist it inside the reduced space of his pocket.  
It has been three days since they talked for the last time. Since he left Valentino's most recent words unanswered.

Since he saw that picture of _them_ together.

Painfully happy. A lovely couple. Prompting him to act like a grumpy kid that has discovered he has not even the remotest chance of getting what he wants. And still, he has almost given in more than once. That last _Marc?_  on his screen pulling the strings of his heart every damn time it hits his vision.

However, the italian didn't insist farther after that, which he kind of expected. And maybe it's for the best. Maybe he needs to see those pictures to connect with reality again and comprehend that Valentino is hers to love. Not his.

As much as it hurts.

He absent-mindedly unblocks the screen of his phone only to lock it again seconds later, deeply preoccupied with the apparent inability of his brain to think about anything else.

He buries the device deep down his pocket when Andrea pats his shoulder, grateful for the distraction when the other italian strikes up a light conversation. Anything that can take his mind away from it all is very, very welcome.

He'll deal with the matter as soon as he's ready, he silently promises. The only problem is that he wonders if he'll ever be.

  
~°~

 

_Japan, Sunday, 21st October, 2018_

 

Valentino should have known the sweet moment couldn't last very long. Of course not. Being comfortable in and out of track has become an inaccessible goal this season it seems.

He's no longer on his twenties and for some shity reason the long flights are starting to get its toll on him, his mood dampens more easily than it used to and his body resents in ways it didn't a few years ago. Furthermore, his Yamaha is back to functioning like crap, his throat and mind already tired of repeating and asking for the same over and over again while the Japanese restrict themselves to nod and agree without offering an useful solution. And to put the cherry on top, Marc's has stopped texting him. 

To be honest, he's mad at himself rather than at the younger. Because _he_ started all this in a moment of weakness. _He_ was the one giving in to the soft spot he has for Marc.

 _He_ was the one that has made his own feelings vulnerable once again.

He can't hold back the groan that slips through his lips when he's finally alone on his room after the exhausting day of racing, his back giving up to lean against the hard door, his head resting on it with a thud. The headache is back, the throbbing of his temples not disappearing, not even lowering his eyelids helps. He shouldn't feel like this on a Sunday evening.

He never thought he would.

Maybe he's really getting old.

And still, those images keep on rolling and replaying on his mind, the thoughts not fading. _He's done it again. Marc is the champion again_. And no matter how bad he tries to bring it down, he feels an horribly overwhelming sensation of pride warming him up. It hasn't left since the damn moment the exited the last corner of Motegi, Marc's wheelie's silhouette outlined in the horizon, Andrea nowhere to be seen. And if he focuses purely on the first sentiment beating inside him, he might have believed he's on 2013 again, ready to congratulate the Spaniard as soon as their bikes are close enough for their gloved hands to touch.

But they are not.

He takes a deep breath before taking his cap off. It suddenly feels heavy, compressing his head, accentuating his discomfort. The neon garment lands on the mattress of his seemingly, really appealing bed.

For once, he doesn't care if the clock hasn't even reached eight o'clock in the evening. He can't take it anymore, his body screams for rest and so does his mind. He's not surprised it hurts, after all. How couldn't it when it it's bearing the pressure of so many confusingly, ridiculous thoughts. All of those wearing the name more repeated by the paddock today. Who has stopped talking to him.

He's truly unable of coming up with a possible, plausible reason for Marc to ignore him like this. There was plenty of them, of course. He has done and said a good amount of things in the past that could potentially annoy the Spaniard and still, none seemed serious enough for this to happen. Especially after Thailand. He's asked himself innumerable times what could he had done wrong this past couple days. And that was as unanswered as his last message directed at the younger.

He swiftly gets rid of the dark blue, Yamaha sweater, the pants quickly following while his sneakers go next and add to the new pile of clothing items formed on floor. He automatically makes quick work of brushing his teeth and washing his face, deliberately switching off his phone. It will be good to block the exterior world out for a bit.

In other circumstances, it would have been impossible for him to fall asleep now. Not when his mind his tossing and turning that continuously.

But he's tired, in every sense of the word. Physically and emotionally, he's completely worn out.

It's probably the first time in months his brain disconnects as soon as his eyelids fall shut.

 

~*~

 

He doesn't know what time it might be when he hears the knocks. Valentino is not sure whether they have been resonating all over the room for a while now or if it's the first round of them. His half opened eyes get a glimpse of the digits plastered on the screen of the clock occupying the bedside table.

6:14 AM.

His flight leaves in five hours. If Uccio is on the corridor, thinking he needs three hours to pack, Vale swears his best friend has definitely lost his mind completely.

His body shudders when the covers are removed by his own hands, his eyes hastily blinking to get rid off the remnants of sleepiness that refuse to leave, the wooden floor cold against his bare feet.

And he must stop thinking, anticipating that his childhood friend, Luca or a member of his team are going to appear at the other side of the door at dawn. He must stop being this naive, he's too old for that. And it's the nth time this season it happens. At this point, he shouldn't even be surprised to find Marc standing on the hallway anymore. However, he seriously doubts the Spaniard will ever stop surprising him with his blunt actions, those so distinctively his.

In Valentino's defence, tonight it has seemed more impossible and unexpected than ever before. Because the younger had plainly disregarded him for the last week. Because the kid has just won the title and should be anywhere but here on his door at six in the morning.

He's obviously no longer on his leathers, but clad in faded jeans and one of those white shirts with the big Level7 proudly printed on the cotton surface. But his face...his face is what irremediably hooks Valentino's gaze, his breath hitching imperceptibly (at least he hopes so). Marc's chocolate brown, bottomless eyes shimmer under the dim, artificial glow of the corridor's lamps, his cheekbones come out sharper than ever as his usually perfectly styled hair hangs lower than normally on his forehead. More natural, more laidback, endearingly wavy. The brusque urge of running his fingers through it appears out of nowhere, making his hand contort in a fist to keep its actions in check.

The few seconds that follow the noise of the doorknob being turned are identical to those lived in Thailand, the only difference being the pijama shirt that this time does cover Valentino's chest. But his just awaken brain is as foggy, spins just like it did that night in Buriram.

Silence remains thick, plummeting between them, heavy on the air as he notices Marc's irises moving their focus point from one of Valentino's eyes to the other, their usual intensity increased tenfold, as if the Spaniard's unsaid thoughts and emotions where accumulating behind them. It's nearly mesmerizing.

He only has time to part his lips slightly, seriously resembling a fish out of water, words getting stuck under his tongue, before the kid throws himself at his arms.

He can't hold back the gasp when Marc's body collides against his, when those strongs arms circle his waist, settling in a tight grip. Every single sense activates all of a sudden, like a switch being flicked when Marc buries his face on the crook of his neck, his nostrils are violently assaulted by the kid's familiar scent, the champoo he would recognize anywhere attaching itself to his nose like a magnet. He can feel the warmth he only associates with Marc oozing of the Honda rider's body, engulfing every single bit of skin available. And Marc's gentle breaths, pleasantly fanning the sensitive flesh that covers the side of Valentino's neck.

For a bunch of seconds, he's utterly incapable of reacting at Marc's hug, his muscles awfully stiff and rigid, completely motionless. Some part of his mind is shouting, willing him to move and reciprocate the gesture before the kid gets tired. He wonders why hasn't he gotten tired of trying over and over again. In every sense. Nonetheless, he should already know first hand that giving up it's apparently not on Marc's vocabulary.

If anything, he hugs him tighter, presumably looking for a response, pressing for any kind of reaction. _Daring_ him to correspond it.

_And that's it._

He reaches out to swiftly shut the still ajar door before he allows his arms to finally envelope Marc's frame. Electric shocks travel up his spine when the Spaniard squeezes his torso harder, more desperately. And if Valentino ever thought they couldn't connect as deeply in any other way as they do when their eyes lock, he's proven wrong. He can feel and sense the duration and intensity of every breath Marc takes, he can feel the way his muscles relax under the pressure of Valentino's ones, the younger's soft strands ticking his jaw, his fingers clawing his shoulder blades with a disconcerting vehemence, with startling ferocity, as if he feared Valentino could vanish, slip through his hands any moment now.

And he understands, grasps perfectly what the recently crowned champion is trying to tell him. He comprehends the odd, eccentric apology as if Marc had uttered it under his breath. Whether it's for shutting him out without a reason or for something else, he doesn't know. But it for sure creates goosebumps all over his skin, thrills shaking his nerves while a relieved sigh he didn't even know he had been holding, involuntarily leaves his lungs.

He doesn't know how long they stand there, not alterating the amount of distance between them in slightest. He doesn't know how long they spend clutching to each other's bodies. He doesn't know how many minutes. Probably enough for their breathings to synchronize, matching each other's rhythm perfectly. Enough for his back to end up pressed against the wall, willingly following the little, faint steps Marc takes. Something holding them up before any of their muscles decides to give up.

He doesn't know for how long they hug, but what he does for sure know is that he doesn't want it to end. Because it's the most intimate, meaningful physical gesture he has shared in a long, terribly long time. It hides so many unnamed things Valentino would be unable of enumerating all of them. So he simply enjoys it to the fullest, hopping the moment engraves on the back of his memory permanently. He simply lets Marc let go of all the tension he must have been piling up for weeks, lets him take whatever he pleases. He's too tired and moved to argue or fight back his own impulses, hence the palm he's already digging into Marc's scalp, finally fulfilling the desire of stroking the kid's hair, loving the almost imperceptible hum it rips out of the Spaniard. As smooth as he expected it.

"Sorry for waking you up" Marc murmurs huskily (as if he was the one that had just gotten out of bed) against the vulnerable bit of flesh under his ear as he fondly nuzzles Valentino's earring. It takes him a while to figure out the meaning and purpose of the words, too distracted by analysing the position of each part from the other's body.

"It doesn't matter" he eventually retorts hoarsely, too, the lack of use making itself evident on his tone. Raspy but sincere. Because in the end, it doesn't. Marc's here now and that's all he can focus on.

_He's here again._

He hasn't lost him.

Just like that, the uneasiness of these confusing days doesn't matter anymore.

He tightens his embrace that little bit more, now being the one holding onto Marc as if he was about to disappear. The kid changes his posture slightly, the movement locating his forehead against Vale's jawline, his eyelids closed. And he would gladly spend the rest the rest of the night there, just like that, without any kind of disturbing thought swimming through his mind.

"Congratulations, by the way" he finally manages to let out after a pause filled with comfortable silence, realizing that he had almost forgotten about Marc's achievement in the last couple of minutes, distracted by the other rider himself "You deserved it"

They both let the words sink in, hanging in the air, which stretches their meaning to the maximum. Because they could not be any truer. He hadn't even been able of holding it back when the press had asked him about it a few hours before, as much nonchalance as he has tried to project. And Marc will probably be tired of hearing it today. It'll probably be another congratulation lost between the identical ones he must have received. But he wants him to know it. Know that he's low-key proud.

"Thank you, Vale" it's said so unusually lowly that the italian wouldn't even be sure it has been said at all if it hadn't been for the vibrations against his shoulder or the momentary squeeze he receives.

"You are welcome, bambino" he allows himself to whisper into the charged atmosphere, adoring the feeling of Marc's wide smile pressed against his collarbone.

They finally break apart after that, little bit of air eventually making it through the little space they permit between their chests. And Vale doesn't know what's more overpowering; having Marc pressed flush against him or having him looking up at Valentino with those eyes. His eyelashes even seem thicker and longer than usual. He licks his lips before uttering the following question, willing his heartbeat to ignore the way the younger's gaze flicker towards his mouth.

"You haven't slept, right?" It's almost unnecessary, Marc's presence already gives away faithfully enough the negative answer that effectively comes seconds later. He looks happily tired, as anyone would look after an sleepless night celebrating a championship. And the suggestion he's about to utter is crazy, it's getting himself into a maze, it's testing his own self control, and still, he can't help but ask "Wanna take a little nap?"

"Only if you do, too" the proposal is cheekily mumbled, but Marc looks much more serious than usual, his brows almost contorting into a frown, the gleam on his eyes turning earnest, as if he was fighting with someone inside his head. As if the words he has just uttered had gotten out without his permission, escaping the filter.

However, Valentino can do nothing but nod, nothing but closing his fingers around Marc's delicate wrist and guide him towards the unmade bed, nothing but let himself fall back against the covers while the Spaniard gets rid of his sneakers. And just like that, he feels a fluttering sensation spreading up from the pit of his stomach, feels his heart hammering inside his ribcage when Marc shamelessly snuggles against his shoulder, feels his breath faltering for a milliseconds when Marc's fist closes around a handful of his shirt.

Neither of them dares to break the comfortable atmosphere after that.

The first hints of light make themselves visible through the curtains, the dark sky getting gradually paler as Marc's breaths start getting steadier, more even. He makes the mental note of waking him up in less than an hour, before Uccio comes. He doesn't even dare to imagine his best friend's expression if he found them like this.

But that lacks importance right now. Not even the uncomfortable, nagging reminder of _her_ his rational part screams at the top of its lungs is enough to stop the recollections from Le Mans to appear. The image of Marc fast asleep on his motorhome's couch feels ages ago. If he had been told back then that months later he would find himself like this. But he guesses that's what he gets for not being capable of letting the kid go.

Not that he's complaining. How could he when he's allowed to get this view?

"Sorry for the wrinkled sheets" he murmurs more to himself after a fleeting glance around them, letting his hand travel back into Marc's strands without a second thought. The worst thing, it's how natural and familiar it feels. 

Valentino doesn't find sleep again after that, but he doesn't mind in the slightest, it allows him to bask in the moment, to think profoundly about his messed up sentiments, think about how criminally whole he feels right now. Maybe it will last or maybe it won't. He still needs to find out the reasons behind Marc's lack of answers lately. But they have plenty of time for that. 

One thing he's certain about, though, consequences be damned; he doesn't want it to happen ever again. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, sorry for the delay. I just want you to know that updating earlier is always my intention. Unfortunately, life gets in the way and my lack of free time doesn't allow me to do so. Sorry. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy. Love you <3

**_Phillip Island, Australia_ **

_25th October, 2018_

 

It's unsettling, how neat Valentino's ability of dissimulating is, and, being completely sincere, a little part of Marc is starting to find this situation strangely hilarious. It's oddly fun, being on the press conference, feigning in front of the journalists's inquiringly eager faces that nothing has changed since that Thursday in Misano. The irony of it doesn't go unnoticed to him.

Feigning that his expression can't be nothing but serious when looking at Valentino has become a weirdly amusing activity.

Or perhaps it's because of this apparently endless state of happiness and fulfilment after becoming the champion. Maybe it's the pleasing memory of waking up pressed against Valentino, that special Monday, the moment dangerously close to pop up on his head at one of the best recollections from last weekend; being able to gaze into those eyes up close, close enough to vaguely hear the beating of the italian's heart under his temple, close enough to lose himself in that wonderfully familiar scent he swears he can smell every time he concentrates hard enough.

His improvised nap couldn't last more than forty five minutes after an sleepless night and yet he regained consciousness as if he had just had an eight hours long sleeping time. And the nagging feeling of not wanting it to end, of not wanting to go, mixed up with the raw content of getting that feeling back, of finding calmness and rest against Valentino's body after enjoying the madness their job brings along. Those feelings used to be so ordinary, so commonly well known on race weekends, the only difference being that he's no longer an innocent kid and the chemistry between them is no longer friendly sympathy and hero worship. No, that belongs to their past selfs, got lost somewhere on 2015. And still, there they were, seemingly, as if nothing had changed when everything has.

His emotions aren't the same either.

There's something there, filling his stomach with that damned fluttering feeling that briefly accelerates the beats of his heart and dries his mouth every time he does as much as hear the italian's voice. But he doesn't intend to find out what kind of irrationality might it be. He must flee from any source of complication that could potentially jeopardize the progression they have managed to make.

Because everything stops to matter when he gets to receive a light joke from Vale afterwards. Everything stops to matter when he thinks about Sunday and the post race visit he has internally promised will be the only one he allows himself to make in the weekend. Not that their tight schedules would permit them anything different, either. Not that he thinks they'll spend every single available second hanging out. Both of them need to keep it slow and casual. For once, he doesn't feel he's ready for speed. For once, he feels neither of them is ready for rushing the pace of events. He should worry about not fucking it up, instead. He's not willing to repeat Argentina's episode, he's not willing to feel that empty ever again.

 

~*~

 

_Saturday, 27th October, 2018_

 

He has done a great job of hindering his ecstatic mood in front of his team and family, winning that trophy becoming a vital factor on that, an useful disguise. It has been easy, hiding how glad he is about the unsettling fact that they are talking again. But of course, Jose ends up knowing that something else is up rather quickly. It's Saturday evening when he asks, the low question almost getting drowned behind the noise his leathers make as he stretches to take them off his sweaty body.

"Are you going to tell me whats going on for you to be this extra cheery?" He asks directly, the motion of his hands stopping for a moment as he mutters the words.

"I'm always cheery" he retorts, a light smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth just in time. He can't decide which would be the besy way to act, what wouldn't give away what's constantly plaguing his mind.

"Yes, you are" his assistant concedes but his unimpressed gaze tells Marc that he's not going to drop it that easily "But there's something else"

"I became world champion six days ago. The joy doesn't fade that quickly" he manages to dodge both the answer and Jose's look, trying to accelerate the process of peeling off his leathers and getting rid of all the protections glued to his body.

_Yes, there's probably something else, the problem is; that I don't want to think about that "something else"_

"I don't mean that and you know" his friend states, crossing his arms over his chest when Marc is finally free from all of it. However, he feels more vulnerable, as if removing his race overall had left him as emotionally bare as he almost is physically speaking, the light weight of his inner shirt and leggings never enough "But if you don't want to share it, that's okay h-"

"I don't share it, because there's nothing to share" he shots back, trying to keep his now not fully sincere smile in place. But, it's strange, keeping this away from his assistant. He definitely considers Jose one of his best friends, he knew perfectly well that he was worthy of his trust. Besides Alex, he would be the first one Marc would go to if something was wrong. Still, he finds himself incapable of telling him this.

He simply can't imagine himself telling someone this. For the first time, he understands Valentino's speech in Misano. He's tired of everyone being witness and judge of what happens between the italian and him. For once, he prefers keeping it for themselves. Plus, he's oddly assaulted with an strange wave of loyalty, he doubts Valentino would like anyone to know what's happening between the two of them. And he's not willing to betray that trust. Not now that he has regained a bit of it.

"Mmm" Jose hums, clearly not convinced, but his relaxed stance makes evident that he's not going to push it farther "You know, either way, I'm glad that whatever it is; it's keeping you more content. Even more than usual"

He smiles, half truthfully, half feigned, this time. His _I'm glad I have him back but hate that it might not be enough_ inner battle picking up strength once again, revolving everything inside his chest. Nonetheless, the simple thought of being able to spend time with Valentino, alone, makes it all worth it, it's strong enough to partially dissipate the clouds that have formed above him.

"Asshole" he mutters fondly, earning a cackle and a light shove from his friend, his always warm gaze awfully comforting.

_I haven't the slightest idea of what this could be taking us, but be sure that if something remotely good ever gets out of it, you'll be one of the first ones to know._

 

~*~

_Sunday, 28th October, 2018_

 

 

He's convinced now. This circuit is definitely jinxed if he puts a foot on it as the champion. This year the most remote possibility makes an appearance on the most unfortunate moment. But he can say that, after seeing the images and the various footages, he's glad it turned out the way it did. Johann's bike could have caused way worse consequences than a little soreness on his shoulder and zero, no longer important, points on his account.

Still, he can already feel the unforgiving tiredness of the three consecutive races seeping through his skin, washing over his entire body once Johann closes the door behind him as he leaves Honda's little office. And he really appreciates the gesture, he understands very well that creeping, pestering necessity of apologizing after putting another rider at risk, himself. _Been there, done that._ Nonetheless, it seemed it wasn't as easy for others to forgive as it was for him.

The thought goes to the back of his head, leisurely spreading a light headache, Valentino's name engraved on everything he can think of. And how he didn't forgive him. Not fully. Not that they have talked about it, anyway. He guesses they should. His permanently worrying, internal questions couldn't be delayed, left unanswered anymore. 

He quickly slides his feet inside his sneakers, his fingers executing movements more rushed than necessary when tying the laces. He's extra careful with his left shoulder (Don't want it to get dislocated once again) as he puts on one of the more discreet, neutral sweaters he owns, hastily covering his ears and the top of his head with the warm hood.

Fortunately, the hotel that is his destination it's ridiculously close, the adress that indicates the distance between him and the italian perfect to be covered in a short amount of time without raising suspicions. He calculates around an hour or two at his disposal, a reasonable time to spend " _working with Santi and some other members of the team after the complicated weekend_ ", as he has managed to convince Jose and Alex of. At least, he would like to think he has convinced them. If any of them had noticed that he was lying, neither gave it away.

A relieved sigh gets out of his throat when he finds himself at his door, the shiny digits nailed on the neat wooden door staring back at him, poorly iluminated by the dim light coming from the screen of his phone. He's tremendously grateful the lack of those automatic sensors systems on the spacious corridor that lights up the space when you do as much as stepping on the carpet. He doesn't even want to think about the consequences if someone saw him right here, right now.

Marc forces his left hand to abandon the warm shelter the pocket of his hoodie has become to knock as softly as possible. As smoothly as he can when he feels his heart is going to beat its way out of his chest. He truly wonders if he will ever stop having that sensation when about to see Valentino.

Certainly, it doesn't look like it, given it's been the same crazy pace for ten years. It's exactly identical to the rhythm it picked up that day of June he won't ever forget. When they met.

If he simply concentrates on his heart rate, he can travel back in time and see his teenager self on Yamaha's box, accompanied by a couple of photographers that had been kind enough to go there with him, weak in the knees, his trembling hands barely able to support the two weightless boxes with the Scalextric logo that he was meant to give him.

He shakes his head hastily, not allowing his mind to dig farther into that. Specially not when the response it's taking longer than ever. Perhaps the italian hadn't even returned to his room yet, caught up on something. Maybe he's not even on the right floor. A wave of nerves travels down his spine at the thought, his hand gripping his phone even harder. He's about to check the messaged number on Thursday when his familiar voice finally filters through the door.

"Whoever you are, leave" hoarse and lower than usual. And the words spilled are something Marc wasn't definitely prepared for. An unexpected factor that is drying his throat alarmingly quickly.

"Valentino...It's me" he finally goes for, as discreetly and low as his vocal chords allow him. What could be possibly going on? As he done something wrong, without even realizing it? His mind travels sloppily through his last actions and declarations, dreading a reason for the italian to avoid his presence. A few dead, silent seconds pass, even though he barely notices, too caught up on his messy, chaotic thoughts. Seconds that has apparently allowed Valentino to reach the door.

It's definitely not what he would have expected. He doesn't think he has ever seen the older this evidently worn out, this obviously fed up, clad in a baggy, black hoodie, that only makes his skin seem paler than usual. The italian pushes the door open a little bit wider before leaning against the door frame, as if he needed the support of it to keep himself on his feet.

 _And his eyes_. Marc's favourite shade of blue is devoid of its usual brightness, the darker nuance under them accentuating the evidence; he must not be getting much sleep.

Just like that, Marc is taken aback by the stroke of emotion and raw fondness that rips a long ago buried sentiment of affection off his chest. The desire of hugging Valentino again, impossibly tightly, as he did last Sunday, it's nearly irrepressible.

"You should leave" the Yamaha rider mutters, his voice tone way more hoarse and low than it tends to be while his slightly tilted head projects a mesmerizing glint on his gaze whose meaning and nature Marc's absolutely incapable of discerning. But he can't deny that the suggestion unsettles him just as much, as if he had just come across a barrier he didn't know would be blocking his path "I'm probably not the best company you could have right now"

_And yet, it's the only kind of company I want._

It's clear something is going on with the italian rider, that dim expression looks foreign on his features and he is not willing to give up that easily. Not like this. Not now. He hasn't done so in much more complicated scenarios and situations, and he wasn't going to do so now.

"I'll go if you ask me to, but I want to know if you're okay" he states earnestly, this time, not the slightest trace of humour hidding behind his words as he fights to keep the eye contact between them intact.

 _I'm here for you_. Nothing has changes regarding that aspect. Meeting Valentino out of track has never been a spare, free time activity. The emotional strings that attach him to the older are way too strong and firm for it to lack meaning.

"The answer it's not complicated, is it?" Vale snorts, but he can tell it doesn't hold the tiniest bit of malice or rudeness, not when it's immediately followed by that smirk, a brief glimpse of the Valentino most people gets to see. However, he's glad he's here now, getting to witness a side of the older that uses to remain out of sight for everyone else.

The door is left opened as the Yamaha rider dissapears inside, a perfectly clear invitation he accepts without a second thought.

He's surprised with the scene he finds inside the spacious room once he leaves the closed entrance behind him. The bed is pristine, intact, perfectly made and neat.

But without a single pillow on it.

They are all gathered on the couch, piled up and conveniently stacked to create an oddly fluffly nest.

"Are you depressed enough to built a pillow fort?" He jokes randomly, aiming for a lighter atmosphere. To be honest, he has to stop himself from smiling at the mere idea. However, he doesn't like the idea of Valentino feeling gloomy. At all.

"Shut up" the italian retorts while he runs his hand over his perfectly shaved hair, before letting himself fall on the sofa, into the position Marc suspects he was before he had shown up. There is a paused image on the TV, probably some film he hadn't even been paying attention to. It has happened to him many times before. And it never helps.

"May I?" He inquiries softly, taking a few cushions, the closest to Valentino, away to sit down on the space they leave behind. In any other circumstance, he wouldn't have even asked, however, he doesn't know where the limits might be tonight. Where his limits might be. But he does know he wants to be close to him.

"Make yourself at home" Valentino shrugs, his magnetic gaze never leaving Marc's face as he slumps down beside him, the intensity of the goosebumps it provokes never decreasing.

"Okay, what's wrong?" He eventually sighs after a dreadfully acute silence, during which he can only hear their breathing rhythms merging in the air alongside the constant, background noise of the heating.

"Didn't think I would have to explain it" Valentino hisses harsher than Marc could have anticipated, his normally smooth voice tone coming out raspy, his stance rigid and strangely distant. But, weirdly, it doesn't take him aback this time, doesn't bother him. He simply modifies his position on the couch, sits up straight, to look at the older rider directly. He realizes he has been kind of waited for this to happen since that night at Aragon, masked behind the taste of reconciliation and new chances. He's been kind of expecting Valentino to snap, somehow.

At some point.

"You don't" he replies cooly, trying to ignore the sparks that light up instantly as soon as Valentino's piercing look jerks up and fixes on him again at the statement. Because he really doesn't "I get it, it's been a long time since you won a race, and you're really upset and frustrated with Yamaha, because you could have been fighting for the championship if it wasn't for your crappy bike. Look at you, it hasn't even stopped you from fighting for the second position. And it's an authentic shame. You feel you are running out of time and as if that wasn't enough, it has recently been seven years since you lost your best friend and Malaysia doesn't evoke the best of memories. I get it, okay? But you don't have to keep it to yourself"

_That's why I am here for. Lean on me like I used to lean on you._

His mouth is horribly dry after the brief speech, his tongue and glands not producing enough spit when a rush of nerves floods him internally, breath knocked out of his lungs when the italian rider's eyes acquire a glassy glint. Still, he's not able to look away. He simply bask in every detail of that moment of connection that gives away that he got it right. That he comprehends, understands, even though he can't even imagine what it must be like. Because the bike will improve, that will be fixed, but he can't even begin to imagine what must be like to miss someone you know you'll never get to see again. To miss someone that it's gone.

He just knows he wants to be there if he needs him, despite how many months they have passed without talking to each other.

Valentino sniffs swiftly, folding his knees towards his chest, blinking rapidly, looking almost ten years younger as he twists his earring between his fingertips. And Marc can almost see the gears turning inside that head, he can nearly hear him thinking, looking for a way to react. And Marc contemplates every option, from a snarky remark to an invitation to leave and mind his own business.

"Ultimately, I can't stop thinking about all the mistakes I have made in my career; Valencia 2006, those two wasted years in Ducati" he enumerates lowly, releasing a deep, heavy sigh before continuing "2015"

His jaw tightens visibly and so does Marc's chest, not tearing his gaze away from the other for a single second. The mention on that awful year feels like a granade being activated after walking on tiptoes around it for an endless amount of time. And yet, it's the first time Valentino addresses it as his mistake, as his own error and not Marc's. And he doesn't dare saying anything after it. Neither of them does. They don't need to when their eyes collide. And Marc would like to know if the overwhelming wave of emotion that his blooming insise his ribcage is reflected through them. If it shows how much it means to him, how it has violently knocked his world off his axis.

"Lately, they have been replaying on my head nonstop, like entering a fucking loop of lost chances and no matter how hard I try, I can't think of anything else when I hop onon the bike. It's maddening" He breaths, conveying his distress perfectly, something Marc has always been entranced by, how easy Valentino makes things look, how it always makes it simple for others to grasp how he feels, be it here or in a room full of people.

He fights to disentangle the knot blocking his breathing channel, forcefully pushing what he wants to say out.

"You are a champion, Vale. _The champion._ And that's not gonna change because you don't have a season good enough to win that trophy. You just have to look at the grandstands of any circuit to see it" he points out sincerely as he stares at the most vulnerable version of Valentino he has ever seen, allowing words to flow out of him without restraint. No more games "Your immense talent will never fade, no matter how many years pass by. Bad times don't last forever and the Valentino Rossi that did nothing but win it's still there, waiting for a decent bike to ride. And it will come, eventually. Just in time"

The most profound silence Marc ever remembers hearing plummets between them. Not that he cares, he doesn't want anything to distract him, to keep him from enjoying to the maximum the electrifying stare he's receiving.

"Sometimes I forget how much you have matured" the hint of awe on Valentino's hoarse words it's something he never wants to forget, as much as he wants to engrave on his head how the italian seems to be examining him, carefully going over every single one of Marc's features.

 _You made me mature._ Maybe not in the most pleasing way. No how presumably neither of them would have liked to. _But it was you._

"Thanks to you" he mutters with the most unsteady tone he has managed in the whole night.

And he can't help thinking, impressed at how much that man sitting in front of him has marked his life and his career. How large it's the print he left behind. On Marc. How big it's the space he still occupies there. How special and untouchable it'll always be.

It's insane, and still, he wouldn't want it any other way.

He can tell that Valentino has comprehended the meaning behind each one of his voiced thoughts flawlessly, the hurt remark hidden somewhere. He has always been good at that. And perhaps that's why his next gesture surprises him that much.

Nimble fingers slide in between his, a warm palm comes in contact with his. The italian interlaces their hands and the circular motions his thumb traces over his knuckles sets Marc's skin on fire. Just like that.

And he hates the obnoxiously long seconds it takes him to tighten his grip back, while he swears the intensity of his feelings physically hurts. How bad he craves for something that it's beyond his reach, but that he feels they are constantly grazing with the tip of their fingers before a new obstacle appears. Still, sometimes it's enough, like a gulp of water that satiates his thirst momentarily. He'll probably crave for more later. But right now, he doesn't want to push it further.

Nothing else dares to break the bubble after that. More trivial things are said, things that he won't even remember later, eclipsed by the sensation of something physically linking them. Even the uncomfortable reminder of Valentino's relationship gets pushed back, not important, today.

For once, he's happy with how it's turning out. For once, he feels they have got something back that got lost three years ago. For once, he feels that little bit less incomplete.

Maybe Australia is not as cursed for him as everyone, including himself, has claimed it to be.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, sorry for the wait but it took me forever to finish this one. Nonetheless, hope you enjoy. Love you and thank so much to anyone who still stops by <3

**_Sepang International Circuit, Malaysia_ **

_Saturday, 3rd November, 2018_

 

He wants to see him, privately, more than ever. And that’s not something he thought would be remotely possible. Cause he’s always in the mood to see Valentino. However, today it's different. He feels ridiculously light headed after the press conference and the previous moments on Parc Fermé. Which makes no sense, in the first place. They have been in contact for a while now and had shared a fair amount of gestures, words and looks that will for sure be permanently engraved on his memory. But it’s the first time since Misano that he looks at him with an audience in front of them. It’s the first time since the San Marino Grand Prix that he adresses him and strikes up a seemingly casual conversation.

It’s the first time he apologizes _publicly_.

And his heart nearly jumps out of his chest the moment he finds himself under the focus and attention of that pair of blue eyes that make his brain get foggy every damn time. Luckily, he's able to let behind the seconds of mental stagnation and get out of his reverie, desperately trying to avoid making a fool of himself while he internally struggles to focus on the action on track and get the right words out.

But, of course, everything couldn't go that well, an after his efforts, the news of the penalty imposed falls over him like cold water.

“It will be okay tomorrow, you'll see" Alex assures firmly, patting his shoulder fleetingly before he lets himself fall on the couch, right beside him.

“Easy for you to say that, poleman” he can’t help the teasing tone, his smirk widening at the sight of his little brother's proud expression “You did great today"

He tries to convey how much he means that. He knows Alex needs it desperately, especially after the last races. His own (snatched) pole position immediatly lost him importance for him, it lacks significance if Alex is starting from behind the first mark on the asphalt.

“Thanks, so did you" Alex compliments back as he carelessly crosses his ankles over the coffe table, earning a playfull look of severity from Marc, truly devoid of any kind of sternness. _Mom wouldn’t be happy with our manners._

“Looks like things between Valentino and you are getting better”

Alex’s statement catches him completely off guard, horribly unprepared. Better is a poor way of describing. And what takes him aback is how unexpected but true that affirmation is. A month ago they couldn’t even talk to each other properly and two weekends ago he had found himself fast asleep, shamelessly snuggled against the italian. It’s the first time he thinks about it, and for a split second, his insides revolt, filled with an unknown sensation of vertigo.

“Yeah” he gets to pronounce hoarsely, shortly and briefly, the walls of his throat uncomfortably dry.

“Is there something you are not telling me?” his brother presses, now looking at him directly, throughly, making Marc feel exposed, as if he could see the wide collection of memories he treasures starring Valentino, reflected on his irises like a footage. He blinks repeatedly, irrationally worried at the prospect of that nonsense being possible.

“Seriously, Alex? One pole position and you think you have the right to interrogate me?” he dodges, as smiley as he can, doing his best to conceal the way his heartbeat accelerates at the simple mention of the Yamaha rider's name. This definitely can’t be good for his health.

“Jerk" Alex crackles, not missing the opportunity to pinch his brother's forearm like used to do countless times when their age number was way lower “I’m just curious, okay? It pretty much surprised us all, today"

He doesn’t need to adress the moment they are both thinking of explicitly, it replays on Marc's head as sharply as if be was living it all over again. Surprising didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Yeah, me too" he concedes, the words nearly leaving his larynx in a wheeze.

“But it's good. I know how important it's for you despite all that crap you say to the press" Alex pats his shoulder again, the gesture apparently identical to the one he started the conversation with. But it couldn’t be more different, it’s meaning significantly less shallow. In the end, not much people know him better than Alex.

“Yeah, it’s good" he limits himself to reply, noticing just now the rapid pace of his fingers as they tap the armrest of the sofa.

He bets there are a lot of people out there relieved after their first public exchange of words in months. He is, too. However, he can suddenly experiments something more profound, the warmth that spreads all over him gets deeper, its heat has become almost overwhelming, different.

_Terribly good._

~°~

  
“You shouldn't have apologized"

 _There we go,_ Valentino muses, unimpressed. He had been expecting Uccio's bitter commentary since the moment he left the Parc Fermé.

“I should and that’s why I did it" he states simply, involuntarily quickening the pace of his steps. He’s not particularly hungry, but anyone could have mistaken his suddenly rapid rhythm towards the Yamaha hospitality by that.

Anything to get away from the conversation he doesn’t feel like having. At all.

“In front of everyone, Vale?” His best friend half whispers, half shouts, discontent evident both on his gaze and expression, making Valentino’s eyes roll automatically “To that bastard? Are you for real?”

He stops dead on his tracks, finally letting his look drift towards his friend's grimace. He still can’t believe it. After more than a decade accompanying him to the circuits he thought his childhood friend could have a closer knowledge of the non established rules between riders, that independent, mute language they all seem to share when they have the helmet on. A mutual understanding that they seem to effortlessly share. He knows Uccio could never grasp it, never comprehend it fully, but at this stake of his career, he thought it would be a bit easier for him. Comes off he was awfully wrong.

“Are _you_ for real?” he shots the inquiry back more violently than he had intended, a weirdly intense rush of annoyance fueling the strenght of his voice tone, which he tries to modulate as fast as possible after the short outburst “I made a mistake and Marc deserves my apology as much as any other rider"

 _If not more, after treating him like crap for months_. It did cross his mind before, when he had locked eyes with those bottomless ones under the scrutiny of a million eyes and hundreds of camera flashes. For a moment, he felt that the apology had streched itself beyond a meaningless manoeuvre on track. He owes him that much, after all.

“Since when have you returned to the first name treatment?” Uccio lets out in snort as his steps come to a halt, too, the look on his eyes adquiring a more scandalized glint with each passing second.

“Keeping this tension is absurd" he affirms resolutely, the unintentional shrug executed on his shoulders' own accord. Keeping for so long has been utterly stupid, how he regrets not realizing it earlier, how he regrets shutting Marc out that way.

Not realizing before how he needs his company.

Besides, Sepang always manages to put his world upside down, no matter how. It never disappoints at offering a new perspective, at bringing up memories he desperately wants to forget.

“Seriously, Vale?” he snarls back, the usual couple of incredulity and disgust that plagues his features when talking about Marc makes itself more evident than ever. As if he couldn’t believe Valentino was truly unable of being mad anymore. Sometimes he really wonders how that pent up anger didn’t consume his best friend on the inside. Apparently it’s as impossible for him to understand as it if for Uccio to get what racing is truly about.

“Yes, seriously. End of the story" he concludes, stopping any other possible comeback. He’s not having this argument now, certainly not in the middle of the paddock, or anywhere else, for the record.

“Okay, do whatever the fuck you want but don't come complaining to me when that jerk fucks you up again" with that, he continues walking and Valentino is incredibly tempted to turn on his heels and return to the motorhome without further thinking, his stomach worryingly closed now. He’s perfectly aware that the possibility is there. Marc can indeed hurt him when and however he pleases and yet, he can't imagine anything more painful that not talking to the kid again. He may be playing with fire and he might get burned, but it that happens he’s certain Uccio won’t hear a single word of it.

_Complain to you? Don’t worry, I won't._

 

~°~

  
**_Sepang International Circuit, Malaysia_ **

  
_Sunday, 4th November, 2018_

 

Marc doesn't think he has ever hated seeing another rider fall in front of his eyes as much as today.

The uneasiness it’s slightly similar to Argentina and at the same time, completely different. This time he doesn't feel the unbearable pressure of guilt looming over him, this time he is not dreading crossing the finish line, afraid of what might come next. This time he doesn’t feel like screaming out of frustration like that awful day of April. But he can’t decide what's worse; that or the scarily strong impulse that nearly knocks him out of his bike while his brain is filled up with nothing but Valentino’s name.

Racing can be annoyingly unfair, sometimes.  
He clenches his jaw to face the remaining laps as focused as he can, shamelessly missing seeing the italian's silhouette outlined in the horizon. Feeling horribly alone for the first time on a racing track.

And there's _that feeling_ again. The irrepresible want to talk, the craving for the afternoon to come so he can make the visit that has become mandatory.

He tries his best to feel the victory as intensely as he usually does. Fortunately, his euphoric team makes that pretty easy, their happiness quickly rubbing off on Marc’s mood.

He manages to keep it on the back of his mind until he steps up on the higher stake of the podium, where it becomes simply impossible, ignoring it something that it’s definitely beyond his reach. Feeling that he has planted his feet, for once, on the place that wasn't meant for him. He tries, with all his might, to feel like a winner, today. For his team. For his fans.

But the sensation doesn’t leave completely and he can't help feeling, in all honesty, that the authentic winner of the weekend couldn't make it across the finish line like he should have.

This time, Valentino’s absence on the podium makes itself more evident than ever before.

 

~°~

  
Valentino let's himself fall heavily on the bed as soon as he hears the door effectively closing behind his back. He presses his face against the neutral covers, throwing the cushions against the floor with more strenght than necessary. He can’t wait for the moment he finally gets to sleep on his own bed, back at home. He can't wait for this day to be over. It’s actually ironic, how good it could have been if his rear tyre hadn't slid under him, if he had crossed the finish line first, just like his little brother. Maybe after a good fight with Marc, even. Yeah, that could have been good. But neither of that happened and he finds himself flooded with a mess contradictory feelings he can't control.

He's insanely content with Pecco and Luca's output, but extremely disappointed with his own. When did the victory become such a distant goal for him? Since when does it resemble a dream rather than an objective?

_It was so close today._

He groans, letting his body roll over the soft surface until he's lying on his back. He spends a few minutes there, with his limbs entirely motionless and his mind totally blank, staring at a random point of the ceiling. It’s then when it strikes him. _There's only one race left._ Only one race of this disastrous season. Perhaps that’s exactly why he should't feel this uncomfortable because of the thought.

Because it will mean that some other things that come with the racing weekends will stop happening, as well. No more clandestine visits, their odd routine on hiatus for nearly three months. He truly wonders when the idea of not seeing the younger in such a long time has become this nausiatingly unendurable.

The matter has been swimming all over his head for a while now, honestly. The _what will we do once the season is over?_  stubbornly sticking to the walls of his brain, still lacking a response.

He takes advantage of his solitude to throw an exasperated sigh into the air. He’s too exhausted to consider this now. His mind is not in the proper state to treat such issues rationally.

Once he has had enough of drowning in self pity he decides to hit the shower. It always helps clearing up his head. Besides, his common sense hasn't left yet and it definitely won’t allow him to show up on the VR46 Academy with the smell that accumulates under his leathers, still oozing off his skin.

The faint sound of his phone vibrating resonates against the marble surface of the sink when a stream of hot water starts traveling down his back, which makes him accelerate his movements, the time he had planned to stay under the shower decreasing significantly.

Steam cloggs the air when he gets out of it, but his muscles feel much better; still a bit sore, however, not enough to stiffen his motions anymore.

He leisurely unlocks the screen once his hands have dried properly, not sure if he's ready to read another message of encouragement that simply masks pity. Not ready to take another _you did great_ that it's always followed by an invisible _despite your age_ that he cannot help but seeing.

What's wrong with him? These kind of things never used to affect him before? Why now?

_Perhaps you are really getting old._

Nonetheless, he brings himself to open the notification, the short, dry _thank you_ already hiding behind his thumbs, ready to be typed.

But the message is from Marc.

He doesn’t even know why he hadn't expected one today. He should have, given that they have been closer than ever on track (not counting Argentina) But for some weird reason, he hadn’t contemplated the possibility of Marc wanting to see him today. Maybe because he's lowkey expecting the younger getting tired of it. But he hasn't. The bunch of letters he can read on his screen make all his negative thoughts crumble violently.

_Have fun at Pecco's party. Please, tell me if you want to talk and I'll be there as soon as I can._

He can’t hold back from articulating a smile, an odd gesture today, gracing his features, shamelessly reflecting on the partially misted up surface of the mirror how embarassingly quickly the Spaniard is able to change his mood. To be honest, the younger doesn’t need Valentino to tell him he’s allowed to come. It’s actually kind of scary; how bad he wants Marc to repeat the already familiar gesture of showing up at the other side of his door.

 _You can come whenever you want,_  he finally goes for, immediatly putting his phone on the cold surface of the counter to grab the closest clean towel, neatly folded on his right.

He might not even appear. He must prefer partying with his team. Who wouldn’t?

And he truly wishes Marc won’t put that aside today. The disappointment he holds in the pit of his stomach is something he's determinated to ignore, where it would remain.

Tonight it was about Pecco and Luca. Tonight they both deserved all of his attention. No more distractions.

  
~*~

 

He wonders if Marc will ever stop surprising him.

Of all the possible scenarios his brain might have conjured, this one was not even among the options.

Valentino sees him right away after stepping out of the elevator, the faint light glistening at the end of the corridor, where he knows the polished door of his room is located, like a lighthouse. It’s when he comes closer that he discovers Marc sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the doorframe, elbows resting lazily on his knees, phone in hand, those features Valentino knows by heart partially iluminated by the device, nonetheless, clearly enough for him to see a lopsided smile making its way up to the younger's lips when he catches a glimpse of him approaching.

“How long have you been here?” he can’t help whispering, following the movements of the spaniard's body closely as he gets up while his belly floods with that damned fluttery feeling. _I can’t believe you have actually waited for me._

“Not too much" Marc shruggs easily, as if it wasn't a big deal, the gesture caught sideways while he inserts the card on the keyhole, the faint click swiftly granting them strance to the wide room “My party got kind of long too"

He switches on the lights once the door is safely shut, finally allowing himself to take a look of the younger rider. His upper body is obviously covered by one of those Pull&Bear hoodies with his initials, as usual, the dark faded jeans suit him in a way Valentino doesn’t even allow himself to analyse. He admires how put together he always looks, even after the craziest of celebrations. There is an intrinsic attractive to the Honda rider he seems incapable of loosing, no matter the situation or the context. But today, bearing the intensity those eyes the younger stares at him with, it’s becoming strangely hard. As if he could reach a point where he wouldn’t be able to restraint himself any moment now. As if he was suddenly close to a limit whose existance he ignored until this very instant.

“You didn't have to come” he finds himself whispering under his breath. Blunt and hasty, without warning. He dreads his body has reached such a high level of tiredness, such an overload of information and mixed feelings today, that it’s no longer rationally controlled, the filter gone, his limbs ready to react and obey the littlest impulse. And that’s awfully hazardous, specially with Marc around. Maybe that’s why one part of him wants him to leave. _I'm so worn out I’m not sure I will be able to keep my actions in check with you._

“I know. But I wanted to see you" the spaniard has the nerve to shrug, clearly not aware of the chaos he’s unleashing inside Valentino.

“To take pity on me?” he partially jokes, partially asks, the question tinting with a hint of honesty, anyway. He walks slowly towards the closet, getting his favorite hoodie out. He has been dreaming about changing into it for hours.

“Why should I?” Marc chuckles, the noise of that laugh everyone knows filling the space. Unfortunately, it dies quickly thanks to Valentino’s incapability of keeping a glare for himself “Your brother won his first race, one of your boys is world champion, and you displayed an amazing performance. I don’t think there’s anything I should feel sorry for. A crash? We all go through that"

Sometimes he seems to forget who is he talking to. And still, it brings an unexpected wave of comfort, how natural Marc's tone is when it comes to crashes. As if it wasn’t worth making a fuss of. Perhaps it isn't. It’s part of their job, in the end, that’s true. But even though he has never crashed much in the course of his career, now their emotional consequences seem to increase tenfold. _Another wasted opportunity, and there aren't many left._

“Easy to say that after winning seven races. Must be nice" he comments scornfully, but without a single trace of malice. Still, it sounds harsher than what he had initially gone for, if Marc's brief frown is anything to go by.

“You won’t get rid of me with a bunch of sarcastic remarks" the younger states adamantly, entrancingly steady, not taking his gaze away from him for a single millisecond “If you want me to go, just tell me"

_As if._

He squeezes his jaw, allowing his eyelids to drop for a moment. It helps, slightly dissipating the throbbing pressure on his temples.

“It’s just…I don’t feel like talking today" he finally breaths out, quickly sheding the black shirt with Pecco's number, for once not caring about Marc watching him half naked, to replace it with the grey garment. His mind needs a few seconds to catch up with the Honda rider's curious expression and realice that it's actually the one he lend Marc six months ago. Perhaps the remnants of his scent is what had made it become his favorite. And going by Marc’s soft smirk, he remembers too.

“We don’t have to talk" he’s sure the spaniard is not even aware of how dangerous those words are, of the urges it awakens on Vale’s inner system.

Before he can do anything about it, fingers lace with his, the touch he can only recognize as Marc's, already sending sparks up his veins. The younger manages to drag him towards the bed and for the first time, Valentino wonders when the scene stopped being that surreal, when has become it so natural, when these little gestures and displays of closeness have turned this fluid and effortless again. He can feel the wall they both silently established, gradually cracking, the limits terribly difuse.

He nearly sighs out of relief when his vertebrae settle gratefully against the mattress, tiredness seeping through his muscles. He feels the soft surface dipping beside him, indicating that Marc is now lying next to him. But not touching him anymore, the warmth the graze of their palms provided; gone.

It’s disappointing, but probably for the better. Marc has probably noticed that he’s not of sound mind today. Still, the desire to pull him closer, to establish some kind of physical contact between them, it's maddening.

“You know, thank you for yesterday” Marc mutters after a few, necessary, minutes of silence. He’s lying on his side when Valentino lets his eyes wander towards him, gazing at him as intently as usual “For apologizing. I really appreciate it”

Valentino wouldn’t have needed the clarification, given that it was probably the highlight of the day.

“You don’t have to thank me for that. It was the right thing to do" he breathes, choosing not to lose himself into that look today. He would probably end up doing something stupid. The ceiling, otherwise, can become a good point to fix his visual attention.

“Anyway, thanks" he hears the younger mumble, the low tone not matching with his normal one. It’s then when he realices how true that gratefulness is, how important the simple gesture was to Marc. It’s always like that with him, his behavior keeps on throwing Valentino off constantly. It’s like a chaotic, irreconcilable mixture of feeling empowered and weakened at the same time. As if Marc was continually handing him the control of the situation but by doing so he left Valentino’s wishes and will completely exposed “It would have been nice to battle for the victory today. It has been so long"

Marc's voice filters through his ears several moments later, his mind still trying to get over his unwelcome reflections.

“Yeah, my bad" he grins halfhearted, the curve of his lips coming out idly. He hates how isolated today's opportunity seems, compared to his last races. He hates how strange it seems, when it used to be his habitat, when he used to belong to the top positions.

“Yamaha's bad" Marc corrects, as quick as usual, changing his posture out of the blue to lay on his stomach, probably looking for eye contact, allowing him to look at him directly. Valentino almost grins despite himself, guessing that Marc must be completely incapable of remaining on the same position for too long “You are squandered there”

It shouldn’t, but Marc’s attempts at lifting his mood shoot his heartbeat up, _adorable_ appearing as the only adjective he can think of to describe them. Still, those negatives feelings he has been accumulating since the beginning of the season don’t vanish that easily.

_It would have been nice to win today. To make all those people claiming he should retire shut the fuck up. After all, it makes him wonder if they are not the littlest bit right._

“Careful, Marquez, your inner fanboy is showing" he allows himself to joke, in desperate need of lightening up the mood, to unload the atmosphere. Besides, it has been ages since he had teased Marc like that, and he’s aware that the try it’s stiff and rusty, like the soreness a muscle experiments when it executes a movement it’s not used to doing.

The younger smirks at the teasing, but the gesture is devoid of any kind of frivolity, warmer and with more hidden nuances behind than he would have expected.

“Believe me, it’s not like that" he speaks lowly, suddenly dodging Valentino’s look. And he really doesn’t know how to feel about it. He can almost hear the _not anymore_ that has remained locked inside Marc. And to be honest, it kind of upsets him, the fact that his sometimes irrational behavior has made him lose something he used to take for granted as is Marc’s admlration and silent worship _. I think it’s sort of the other way around, now._

“Looking forward to coming back home?” he sighs randomly, trying to push both of their minds away from delicate issues.

“Kind of. Kind of not" Marc shruggs, easily taking one of the strings from Valentino’s hoodie and twist it between his restless fingers “Don’t you feel it’s like returning to the real world after being in some sort of parallel universe? You know what I mean?”

_You have no idea._

“I do" he nods absent-mindedly, already sensing how worries and momentarily forgotten fears filter inside his chest again “Didn’t know you could have such deep thoughts"

The comment, obviously lacking any seriousness, has its intented effect, and laughing along with Marc is even more liberating than he remembers.

“I'm not thinking about racing _all_ the time” the spaniard points out, the mischevious, playful glint on his eyes captivating Valentino to the core.

“Are you not now?” he grins widely, letting his eyebrows wiggle.

“Asshole" Marc shots back and Vale can’t remember the last time an insult sounded that fond.

“What do think about, then?” Later he would for sure regret taking the conversation back to the serious path, but in that very moment he can’t hold himself back from asking.

Marc’s face immediatly catches up with the change of mood in the ambient, the darkness of his irises getting noticeably sharper, more piercing. A fleeting line dissapears from Marc's lower cheek as fast as it showed up, making evident the tightening of his jaw.

“You don’t need to ask" with that and the concealed _about you_ that Valentino can’t help reading between the lines, their eyes lock and the connection is oddly fervent. He hadn’t realized until that exact second how proximate they really are. He can clearly see the light freckles scattered over Marc’s nose as he’s observed just as closely. It’s as if a switch was being flicked and his senses suddenly could perceive nothing but Marc, the warmth his skin oozes, the smell of his perfume or the exact shade of colour his lips are under the dim illumination.

There are all kind of alarms going off on his head, forcefully trying to smack some sense into him, to remind him that closing the gap that separates them will have all kind of consequences. Urgently trying to smash images and recollections of Francesca against the back of his eyelids. And it almost works.

 _Almost_.

Before his nostrils are filled with that scent of shower gel and cologne he can only recognize as Marc's. That’s when his brain definitely fogs up.

He’s lowkey sure that there will be some sort of interruption, eventually, keeping them away from it. That’s precisely why it startles him that much when it finally happens and the universe does nothing to stop them from colliding.

It’s remarkably different from the one they shared at Silverstone, that rainy Sunday of August. It’s way calmer, not rushed at all, not anxious neither as desperate as it was two months ago, cause this time he doesn’t use the contact to coax a reaction out of Marc, to stop him from walking out of _that_ , whatever it is. This time he does it because he simply, plainly wants to. Because seemingly, he can’t keep himself away from him, despite his efforts. And he should have known that this could happen again, no matter how many void promises he has silently made to himself. He should have known that he was absolutely powerless against Marc if he looks at him like that, if he’s that close, if he’s this exhausted. Too much to think clearly.

But it’s nearly impossible to stop when the contact becomes that smooth, when the brush of their lips is that slow and profound. It’s almost has if those deep conversations they have been sharing for a while now kept on flowing but in a different way, as if they were still talking, somehow; listening, _feeling_ what the other has to say before responding. And his heart must be at the verge of his top speed, making him genuinely wonder if Marc can sharply hear its constant hammering.

The worst thing is; that he can’t get enough, he can’t bring himself to pull away, knowing perfectly that once he does there will be no more of it. That’s why he allows himself to get lost and enjoy, for the shortest instance, how it feels to be that physical and emotionally close to Marc again. His rival, the world champion, that boy that has got a hold on him for years, with whom he’s making out at dawn.

His fingers bury themselves on the younger's strands of hair before his rational side can do anything to stop it, its capacity blocked by the criminally stimulating movements they trace jointly. Marc's brief purring when their tongues delicately brush and the electrifying touch of his fingertips against his jaw empty his mind completely, fuels his body with something different and later, he’s seriously worried about what he would have done if the Repsol rider's phone hadn’t rung, filling the space, bursting the horribly intimate atmosphere that had grown around them.

The headache appears as suddenly as if he had been hit square on his nape. He barely registers Marc answering the call with the hoarser tone he had ever heard him speak with. He doesn’t even pay attention to the lie the spaniard must be telling to whoever is at the other side of the line. Because Valentino simply wants to evaporate into thin air.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, awfully disappointed with himself, for giving in that easily, because of how much he wants to erase that lost expression of Marc’s stunning features and kiss it away over and over again. And definitely, the sight composed by his slightly ruffled hair, the wide, tempestous chocolate eyes, the faintly swollen lips and the coloured, sharp cheekbones is not doing Valentino any favor.

He closes his eyes as he sits up, not opening them until he’s completely sure his vision won’t be hazy or that he won’t feel dizzy. That amount of time is apparently enough for Marc to hang up, stand up and start walking towards the door.

“Gotta go" he states shortly, his voice still incredibly throaty and Valentino suspects it might be the only acceptable amount of words he can get out right now. Still, he admires him for it, cause there’s nothing he can as much as whisper in this very moment. His mind is a chaos of mixed thoughts he knows he won’t be able to rule neither put in order, nearly feeling like crying out of frustration, as well, when the last thing he manages to get a glimpse of is Marc’s too shimmering gaze.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million years later...
> 
> Okay, so first of all, I want to apologize to each one of you for this massive delay. To be honest, I've been pretty stressed lately, with so many things to do, but I'm so sorry it took me forever to get this one done. However, it's here now so I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> On a side note, even though the season is over, the fic is not, there more things to come even if we are done with the races ;)  
> Besides, I'll probably resume my activity on the rosquez AU's collection during the winter break. Now that those two are back on speaking terms I want to write about them. Also, can Marc stop  
> (Don't, please) making romantic analogies on interviews every time he's asked about Vale? Because my heart can't take it. 
> 
> With all that being said, here's the chapter, sweethearts. Love you ♥️

_**Circuito Ricardo Tormo, Cheste, Valencia** _  
  
_Saturday, 17th November, 2018_  
  
  
  
_The shoulder okay?_  
  
Marc has been staring at the message for about ten minutes straight, tracing the outline of each letter with his eyes over and over again, waiting for his brain to come up with a solution, a reaction that won’t make it hurt more than it already does.  
  
It has been more than a week and he’s still not over it.  
  
Is the first message he gets from him in one week and a half, their string of communication mute since that night in Malaysia. And he would be lying if he affirms it hasn’t affected his mood. He should have known, of course, that good things don’t last. He should have known that the moment in which he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back from giving in, again, would eventually come.  
  
And now, to say that he was painfully confused was the understatement of the year. He's completely lost, in fact, any plausible destination or harmless path to follow, gone. He simply doesn’t know what to do with his feelings anymore, how to manage them so they can stop crushing his heart. He huffs at the screen of his phone, exasperated and beyond frustrated, unable to find the way to get out from this loop, to disentangle the tight knot that has been forming on the pit of his stomach. Maybe thinking that he could actually be his friend, _just his friend_ , was the biggest mistake, to begin with. And still, his heart still jumps at the insignificant, mere thought of the italian worrying about the state of his battered shoulder.  
  
He takes a deep breath before typing a curt and quick _yes, thanks for asking_. It’s not even true, his entire being is far from being okay, but at this point he couldn’t care less about lying anymore. He has been doing it during the whole weekend, anyway, struggling to show off one of his smiles every time his mom asks what’s wrong. He knows he's not fooling her, anyway, but she hasn’t pushed it farther and he’s grateful for that. Not that he would be able to put into words how he feels, either way.  
  
He honestly doesn’t know what’s worse; not being on speaking terms at all or being this close again, while having these feelings for the italian that won’t go away, no matter what.  
  
If only he could move on and forget about it.  
  
If only he could get over this nonsensical emotions, especially when they keep on beating him up over and over again as if he couldn’t stop crushing against the same wall continously. What should he expect, anyway? That Valentino would throw away a a perfectly steady relationship with a beautiful woman for him? The idea itself is enough to rip a snort out of chest, plainly ridiculous in every aspect, the possibility absurdly remote. Because yes, the Yamaha rider had kissed him back both times, but clearly, the attraction he might feel for Marc is nothing more than that. It’s pretty obvious, in the end.  
  
He throws his phone against the coffee table before getting up from the couch, a heavy sigh accompanying the movement. The cold water that gets out of the tap and disappears through the sink is enough to refresh and clear his thoughts, at least for a brief moment. His shoulder is still sore, aching after the littlest of motions, a grimace taking over his features each time he moves it more brusquely than he should. Just a few more weeks and everything will be over. For once he's grateful there are no races left this year. He’s glad he won’t have to push his body and his mind harder this season. A few more days. He simply wishes that the emotional pain could be removed by surgery, as well.  
  
How he wishes his fucked up heart could be as easily fixed as his damaged joint.  
  
  
  
                                     ~°~

  
  
Valentino curses out loud, maybe for the tenth time that evening, not decreasing the speed of his steps in the slightlest.

He must have been restlessly pacing in circles around the room for more than half an hour, phone in hand, checking every two minutes if his inquiry after Marc's simple, plain response related to his dislocated shoulder had received a reply. Following the younger's painfully aloof answer, he stares at the abrupt _Can we talk, please?_ one last time, that one he hadn't been able to hold himself back from sending, tensely nipping at the already pretty harmed nail of his pinky while he waits for any kind of reaction. His finger stings at this point, and he swears under his breath this time, once again at his apparently inexistent ability of quitting the bad habit, a supposedly easy resolution, but this past week, it's as if his nerves were going overboard if he doesn't ocuppy himself with some meaningless, nervous tick to channel his anxiety through.  
  
After another couple of minutes fixing his gaze on the screen with no change in sight, he finally allows his back to rest against the wall, trying to serenate his own frantic, chaotic thoughts, the same scenes appearing behind his closed eyelids over and over again. The taste and smell of Marc never truly leaving his sensitive memories, counteracted by the sickening worry he's trying to endure without snapping.  
  
He had to fuck everything up, didn't he? When they finally get to spend some quality time together, to evoke and rescue impressively close remnants of what it used to be like, he had to screw it. _Of course._  
  
He massages his temples, aiming for a bit of relief from the massive headache he's developing while his brain tosses and turns to find a plausible solution to get them out of the dead-end street they seem to be stuck in. If he had just-  
  
"You okay?" Luca's voice filters through his ears without warning, making the muscles on the back of his neck protest after the sudden movement he executes to look at his little brother. He's calmly leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his lean chest, his seemingly relaxed posture drastically contrasting with the worried frown he wears. The one Valentino always gets to see when the younger knows something is off.  
  
"Yeah, just a bit tired, you know. Tough qualifying session " he tries to mask, nonetheless, detaching his sore back from the wall to straighten his spine, anything that can make him look more comfident than he actually feels "Congratulations on your pole, by the way"  
  
His brother's archivement provides the perfect excuse to dodge the compromising question, however, the congratulating message he pronounces followed by a wide, sincere smile of happiness, is far from being fake. He means every single syllable. He knows fist hand how hard he has been working.  
  
"Thanks" Luca nods, the smile dissapearing from his lips as fast as it showed up, and immediatly, Valentino knows he hasn't succeded in his previous attempt of diversion "Are you going to tell me what's wrong, Vale? Or will I see myself in the need of ripping it out of you?"  
  
He should have imagined. How he wishes Luca wasn't that perceptive, that terribly insightful.  
  
"I don't know what you are talking about" he shrugs as off-handedly as his racing heart allows him to, flooded by the deja vu of that night Austria again, when Luca confronted him out of the blue, Marc's incriminatory cap in hand. This time, his brother has no physical, material evidence yet he looks just as convinced that there is something going on.  
  
"Cut the crap, Vale, will you?" Luca clicks his tongue before letting out a heavy sigh, clearly exasperated at his feigned, oblivious attitude. But what else can he do, after all? "Uccio is concerned, as well. He says you have been acting weird"  
  
_Right_. How naive it was of him to think that his friend wouldn't voice his suspicions to someone else. How innocent he has been, thinking that Uccio wouldn't notice a thing. He guesses he's more see-through and transparent than he initially thought he was.  
  
"Really? Wow, didn't know he was that observant" he goes for sarcasm, feeling as if it was the only way to fight back, now. In the end, he knows perfectly well how closely watched and observed each of his gestures, expressions and grimaces is by his childhood friend "I'm just...stressed, I guess. If you haven't noticed my bike works like shit"  
  
And still, he should be grateful for his problematic M1, cause it has provided a perfectly valid, good excuse to blame his unsteady mood on during the course of the whole year.  
  
"Stop changing the topic, I'm serious. I know it's not entirely about that, not buying it" Luca shrugs, clearly giving away that he's not going to give up that easily, his stance as firm and relentless as it was minutes ago "And I'm not leaving you alone until you tell me"  
  
The declaration nearly manages to curve Valentino's lips into a weak smile, taking him back in time, comically close to the resolutions and passive threats an unbelievably mature eight years old Luca would announce when Vale refused to take him for a ride. He was never able to resist that determination back then, and somehow, he anticipates it's not going to be different now, either.  
  
"It's nothing" he still tries one last time, the confession still getting stuck behind his tongue, his mind stubbornly reluctant to let it go. There will be no turning back once it's out.  
  
"You have never been good at lying" Luca scoffs, finally ungluing his shoulder off the doorframe to take a few steps towards him "Vale, please, talk to me"  
  
He instantly notices how his brother's gaze softens, swaping from solid to almost begging. To be honest, if he was in Luca's place, his actions would be pretty similar. He hopes he never has to go through something of the sort.  
  
"I..." _Deep breath_. He forces his lungs to fill up with oxygen, not even capable of getting the first words out without doing so. He doesn't even know how to start "It's just..."  
  
"It's about Marc, isn't it?" He even feels incredibly relieved when Luca exempts him from saying it himself. He fixes his stare on the floor for a few seconds, fidgeting with one of the bracelets on his wrist, contemplating, weighting his options. The atmosphere it's not as heavy as it seemed moments ago, the air lighter, but he still feels as if his heart plummeted inside his chest after every languid step he takes towards the bed, obeying his body's sudden desire of being seated "It's okay, I kind of figured it out, anyway"  
  
He nods again at Luca's clarification, makes his anxiety decrease a bit. Fortunately for him, not everyone knows him as well as Luca, neither it's as savvy at him. Besides, his brother it's the only person who had the slightlest knowledge of what was going on.  
  
"It's as if my head was about to explode any moment now" he grunts, finding in between his palms a good place to hide his face away from Luca's inquisitive look. Away from the world. He's perfectly aware that the answer wasn't straight away affirmative, but somehow, he's more than sure that Luca will comprehend it's disguised implication immediatly.  
  
"Thought you two had talked it out" the young rider expresses after a fleeting minute of silence, confirming his prediction, as if he needed a bit of time to process the information Valentino has indirectly revealed, too.  
  
"We did" he sighs, lowly, as calmly as he can. Getting nervous won't take him anywhere, anyways. He's got to keep a cool head when it comes to this matter, as complicated as it might be. Nonetheless, he struggles to swallow down the knot tied at the base of his throat. Another deep breath "That's precisely where the problem is...It's, it's not the only thing we did"  
  
For a while, the sound of the paddock outside it's the only thing audible while the confession hangs in the air.  
  
"Oh my..." Luca's eyes widen, his jaw dropping slightly as his spine stiffens visibly "Tell me you didn't..."  
  
His heart quickens at his brother's assumption, his nerves getting even more frayed at the mention of it, at the hazardous territory his mind is suddenly approaching. The dangerous area he might have approached if something hadn't interrupted them. _We would be even more screwed than we already are._  
  
"No, no. Of course not. Not like that" he hastily chockes out, getting up from the mattress as if impulsed by a spring, feeling the inevitable urge of pacing around again, to do something physical to vent his frustration "Everything was good until Malaysia"  
  
_Incredibly good._  
  
"But you apologized, in publ-" Luca frowns, following his frantic movements with his eyes, and for the second time that evening, Valentino almost finds himself grinning at his brother's stray waves of innocence. If the problem was just not seeing Marc when exiting the pit lane...  
  
"We kissed, okay?" He mutters hoarsely, not finding enough energy on his system to keep on beating around the bush, directly jumping off the cliff, saying it out loud sending tingles up his spine while his mind plagues with recollections from that precise moment, while his body is enveloped but that kind of warmth that only screams Marc's name "It was an accident, shouldn't have happened"  
  
_It shouldn't have happened and still, I wouldn't change a thing,_ he muses, rubbing the inner corners of his eyes simultaneously to alleviate some pressure.  
  
"Well, fuck" Luca whistles, his expression changes from confused to understanding in a matter of milliseconds before releasing a ponderous huff, and for a moment, Valentino is completely unable to discern if Luca is taking pity on him or on Marc. Probably both.  
  
"It's normal, you know" he adds before squeezing his jaw, allowing his eyelids to drop for a while, to disconnect for a bit "The fact that he's avoiding me now"  
  
He doesn't even want to imagine what Marc may think of him at the moment, of his apparent inability to stop chaining mistake after mistake when it comes to their...whatever they have going on.  
  
"You should give him a litte bit of time" Luca declares steadily, taking a few steps closer to him, not a single trace of judgement on his side, something Valentino will never be grateful enough for "You know Marc, he'll be willing to talk once he's ready"  
  
And perhaps he's right. Maybe he shouldn't push it further. For once, it hits him, how hard the situation must be for Marc. The story repeats itself over and over again and during a bunch of seconds, breath gets knocked out of Valentino's chest at the realization that the younger may have gotten tired of forgiving him.  
  
If not now, he will, the next time he fucks it all up.  
  
"Okay" he breathes out, anyway, with no better solution in sight. What can he do besides waiting?  
  
"Just...I have one question, Vale" Luca announces, efficiently retreiving Valentino's attention back to the present as he braces for whatever might be coming next "Did it feel wrong? Like an accident?"

Out of all the remarks and inquiries he expected, Luca goes for the one he doesn't want answer. He had even refused to think about it. Because all it takes for his rational thinking to switch off is a remnant of how Marc feels against him. _That could never feel wrong._  
  
"I think you need to figure some things out, first, then" his brother adds, patting his shoulder encouragingly, as if he hadn't put every single one of Vale's feelings under siege. The most devastating thing, though, it's how true it is.  
  
With that, the young poleman heads towards the door.  
  
"Luca" he calls out once he has grabbed the doorknob, that blue gaze that remind him so much of their mother glancing up at him over his brother's shoulder. It's impressive, how much he takes after her, in every sense "This conversation can't get out of here"  
  
_It's already enough of a mess as it is._  
  
"What conversation?" Luca shrugs, the change on his stance instantaneous, but that last wink before closing the door behind him gives away perfectly that he has nothing to worry about.  
  
  
                                     ~*~  
  
  
It's like Sepang all over again, when the possibility of the victory, or the podium at least, slips through his fingers like thin sand while he slides over the damp gravel.  
  
The only relatively positive thing about the race hides in the fact that Maverick, with his own crash, couldn't surpass the amount of points accumulated during the season, either. That, apparently, has been enough to guarantee the third position on the championship.  
  
Again, pretty close to the objective but, as usual, not close enough.  
  
In that moment, he doesn't even realize that it forces him to go to the gala. It's not until he arrives to his motorhome and gets a glimpse of her black dress gracefully suspended on the clothes hanger and his own suit neatly sprawled over the mattress that it truly hits him.  
  
And Marc will be there, too, putting his name in that trophy (just above his), receiving the recognition he deserves after his impressive season. And for the first time in the whole weekend, the thought of meeting Marc there, while accompanied by other person, makes him truly nauseous. The possibility of hurting Marc somehow unbearable. But he needs her there, by his side, steadying him, something she has become incredibly good at.  
  
_Everything will be alright,_ he nearly mutters to himself out loud, at the verge of testing if it would make it sound more convincing.  
  
Without room on his brain for more chaotic thoughts, he decidedly heads towards the bathroom before she ocuppies it for an eternity, swiftly opening the faucet, ready to make himself look presentable at least. And trying to push away that overwhelming wave of insecurities that it's constantly asking him how is he going to act when he finally finds himself meters away from the younger.  
  
The season it's apparently over and yet, it feels as if the most difficult, challenging trial was still ahead of him.

  
                                     ~°~  
  
**_Palacio de Congresos, Valencia_**  
**_MotoGP Awards Ceremony_**  
_18th November, 2018_

  
  
It's like being kicked square on the stomach.  
  
Hard.  
  
Again. That same sickening sensation he felt when he saw them together for the first time.  
  
He doesn't know which one is worse, even though tonight, in all honesty, he expected it. He had kind of anticipated this scenario, prepared himself for it and still, it doesn't hurt any less.  
  
He fidgets with his bow tie, the foreign material of the suit seeming even more stiff than his leathers, all of a sudden. He would gladly shove his head inside his helmet now.  
  
It's the fifth time he gets to put his name on the trophy, something he'll surely never get tired of and that, thankfully, boosts his good mood instantly. He refuses to be bothered tonight, forbids his own mind to get stuck on his hurricane of chaotic, turbulent feelings. His team doesn't deserve it, his family doesn't deserve his absent-minded state. And _he_ definitely doesn't deserve his uneasiness, either. If Valentino doesn't look the slightlest bit troubled because of it, neither will he.  
  
He throws his shoulders back, straightens up his spine and flatens the already neatly ironed fabric of his blazer before stepping out on the stage at the pronunciation of his name. The worst thing, though, is that there is no way he can put more distance between them now, even if it's the closest they have physically been in the whole weekend. Fortunately, following correctly the formal instructions marked to add his plaque on the tower of champions keeps his train of thought functioning, in check, any other kind of personal worry being conveniently pushed to the back of his mind for a while, as he does when he's on track. And the smile appears by itself, this time, not feigned or planned. It surprises him, suddenly throws him off, how long it has been since he smiled that sincerely, as if the motion have been ripped directly out his insides.  
  
He's the champion. That feeling he felt right after crossing the finish line in Motegi is back, vivid and intense. And for a moment, everything else stops mattering.

 

                                       ~°~

But of course, his nonchalant resolution couldn't last long. How stupid it was of him to think that it would. It crumbles and shatters within seconds like a glass being smashed against the floor, when he finds himself being dragged into an isolated corridor by the hem of his sleeve as he gets out of the bathroom.  
  
During a bunch of maddening milliseconds he doesn't have the slightlest idea of what could be going on, making the rhythm of this heartbeat accelerate abruptly.  
  
However, any kind of thought, idea or supposition vanishes completely the moment his eyes find a look he knows too well, and that still can make his heart skip several beats with a simple blinking motion. _Fuck_ , it's been barely two weeks yet he realizes now how much he had missed establishing eye contact with him, getting that electrifying rush whenever they do.  
  
"What the fuck are you doing?" He hisses once he manages to compose himself from the initial shock and involuntary moment of ogling him. Damn, this would be way easier if the italian didn't look like _that_ in a suit. But no. Not today. _None of that, anymore if I want to stay sane_. "Have you started following me or what?"  
  
It gets out way more bitter than he expected it to be. It makes him realize, for the first during the whole day, how hurt he truly is. He can't understand anymore what's Valentino' deal, what could he possibly want from him.  
  
"We should talk" the italian whispers hastily after gulping briefly, his vivid gaze flickering over a few lost spots before nailing Marc to the ground. This might be the last time he allows himself to be this close to the older, in the end, and he's decided to memorize the stunning shade of that greyish blue as painstakingly as possible while he can.  
  
"There is nothing to talk about" he declares with the firmest tone he can muster under that piercing look, nearly grimacing after applying too much pressure to his clenched jaw. However, there's nothing left to say, at all. He has had enough to catch the message "You have made that pretty clear already"  
  
And he knows perfectly that he's not thinking straight, that his brain is not reacting correctly, not in the way it should. But the havoc up there has left everything foggy, a mixed up mess he doesn't know how to put in order, how to organize, and just like that, all those lies he built up to convince himself of the ridiculous fact that they could be friends, collapse, while he can do nothing but feel it, completely helpless. And he knows he shouldn't be throwing this in Valentino's face, cause if someone has to take the blame for the situation they are on, that's him and his inability to get over his childish crush. That one that has evolved to become something he doesn't even dare saying, let alone acknowledge.  
  
"Marc" And he nearly wants to cry at the sound of his name, impregnated with Valentino's accented voice, that tonight sounds that little bit weaker, more broken. Maybe he has had too much champagne already, because he can feel his own raw emotions making their way up his throat like bile, suffocating the awfully intense desire he has to put the italian closer whenever he's near him "It's not that simple. You know it isn't"  
  
Again, he _knows_ , yet the cracks keep on appearing down the surface of his heart. Because fate seems go be mocking them, once again, cruelly showing off that unreachable, perfect _what if._  
  
"Right. What do you want me to do then?" He spreads his arms, asking straight away, incapable of deciding what's okay anymore, which way he should choose. His head aches, his skin feels warmer than usual and he even swears his shoulder protests more than it did a few hours ago.  
  
"I..." his blue eyes bore into his flesh, yet the older's reedy voice tone is enough for Marc to comprehend that he won't complete that, verbally speaking, at least. Besides, he's not even sure if he wants him to.  
  
"Look, I have tried, okay? But it's...I can't" he eventually cuts him, pressing it out in a profound exhale, violently tuging on his bow tie for the umpteenth time since his mother put it on place, as if momentarily taking it away would make his throat expand to feed his system with the oxygen he's convinced he's lacking.  
  
_And it's infuriating, endlessly frustrating and maddening. Because it feels so good to be with you. Because I can't think about anything or anyone else. Because my entire being shouts for you all the time._  
  
And he will end up losing it completely if the italian stubbornly keeps on cutting short the distance between them, on intoxicating Marc with his presence, nearly trapping him against the wall. He swallows loudly when Valentino's perfume floods his nostrils, almost making him lose his train of thought, not making the effort of holding back any easier.

That signals the time to go, sets his feet in motion, before his body does something he'll for sure regret later.  
  
"Marc..." the Yamaha rider mutters, quick enough to get an horribly electrifying grip on his wrist, softer, gentler, like a plea, as if trying to bring down Marc's growing distress to make him listen, his gaze roaming all over his face, examining every bit of him. Unfortunately, he has realized relatively late, though, that the italian tends to that pretty often when they are alone. In any other kind of scenario he could have even enjoyed being observed that keenly, that deeply.  
  
But if he has come up with a conclusion since Malaysia, it's that he can't continue playing his own feelings like this, trying to fool his sentiments with something that will never be enough, that starts hurting.  
  
"You can't keep doing this to me" _You can't keep on playing me like this_ , he eventually gets to unsteadily shove the choking words past the knot blocking his sore, burning trachea, while unwelcome wetness accumulates on the corners of his eyes at the flash of affliction briefly visible on Valentino's features. _What I wouldn't give to embrace you right now_. His heart hammers against his ribs, begging him to retrieve his hand, to turn on his heels and go.  
  
And he does and for once nothing stops him, but not without throwing one last glance at those eyes, surprised to find them faintly glassy, contrasting with the sudden hardness taking over the italian's expression. Still, knowing that it causes him some kind of harm, as well, doesn't make him feel any better. Not the littlest bit better.  
  
He sets a fast pace back towards the toilets, blinking as quickly as his eyelids allow him to, grateful for not coming across anyone on the way. It's not until he's enclosed in a cubicle that he silently lets his body get rid of the content of his revolted stomach.  
  
Marc pants, his focus lost somewhere on the marble covering the luxurious walls, eventually able to articulate a hoarse sigh.  
  
If he had any doubt before, it's gone now. The worst thing, though, it's that there's nothing he can do about it.  
  
It sucks to be in love.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, loves! I'm FINALLY back. This last few weeks have been crazy and awfully stressful, but I now I'll hopefully have more time to write. Thanks so much for stopping by, hope you enjoy!

 

**_December, 2018_ **

 

It's probably one of the worst decisions he has made in a while. And that's to say a lot, given the deplorable string of bad choices he has been leaving behind him these past months.  
  
But this might overpass each one of those. He knows, even if his mother hadn't been telling him constantly for one week straight, perhaps hoping that her usually convincing and firm words would make him change his mind. And in all honesty, it would have if he wasn't this emotionally saturated.  
  
He could take it the couple of weeks after Valencia, the numerous interviews and compromises he must attend contributing greatly to it, providing his head a very welcome distraction. But now that he'll be for days not being able to do anything but lie down, alternating between bed and couch, he's more than sure that he'll go mad if he's constantly surrounded by voices asking how is he doing nonstop. He appreciates the concern, but if it pairs up with the inability of doing physical exercise, it will eat him alive.  
  
It hasn't been an abrupt decision, he has actually been thinking about it for a while now, as soon as he was notified that the house was finally ready. Suddenly, the thought of being a few weeks by himself had seemed strangely appealing.  
  
The faint creack coming from the entrance of his childhood bedroom takes him out of his reverie, Alex's face peeking from the other side of the, until then, ajar door.  
  
"How are you doing today?" His brother asks, getting into the room with wary steps, as if afraid os scaring Marc off, a behavior he has noticed since the end of the season. Marc doesn't know how transparent he is, but he suspects his little brother assumes something is going on. In the end, Alex knew him better than anyone else.  
  
"Better. Still a bit sore, though" he does his best to suppress the involuntary shrug that otherwise would have made his shoulders contract. Even though a couple of weeks have passed by since the surgery, there's still some kind of itchness and discomfort surrounding his repaired joint that won't go away, regardless of the amount of medicines he's still allowed to gulp.  
  
"So you are really leaving" Alex lets out in a heavy sigh, eying the half empty suitcase Marc is filling as fast as his working arm allows, glad that it is the right one. If it had been his left arm, he's sure he'll be incapable of doing as much as pouring himself a glass of water.  
  
"Just for a few days" he reassures, not able to hold Alex's look for longer than a few seconds "I'll be back for Christmas Eve, don't worry. Besides, you will just have to walk a few blocks to see me"  
  
He repeats the speech he convinced his parents with, the proximity of his new home his best chance to negotiate this little break.  
  
"That's why I think it's so stupid" his brother replies, crossing his arms over his chest, the tone of his voice way more serious than he expected. It's the first time in months he sees him truly upset. To be honest, if it was the other way around, he wouldn't even weight neither contemplate the option of letting Alex go if he was in his position, even if it's just for a short amount of time.   
  
"Alex..." it's his turn to sigh as he throws his head back, streching his neck muscles, trying in vain to alleviate some of the dull pain that tingles under his skin.  
  
"I'm serious. What's the point on spending a week by yourself, _in your state_?" His brother points at the sling holding his arm in place, stating the obviously nonsensical idea he has come up with.  
  
"I'm not disabled" he mumbles back, focusing his attention back on folding an obnoxiously stubborn sweater. Who thought such an easy task could become that complex with only one hand available? "I just need a few days off"  
  
A few days to vent and get rid of all his bottled up emotions. A few days to cleanse the mess of feelings he has accumulated this season. A few days to accept how things are, and how they will always be.  
  
"And it has to be now?" Alex whines, letting himself fall on the mattress, momentarily agitating the pile of clothes Marc had managed to balance over the fluffly, irregular texture of his duvet "This is so unlike you. You can talk to me, you know"  
  
He finally stops fidgeting with the piece of clothing he had been struggling with to look at the younger rider on the eyes, hoping that a look will convey the foreign, sudden necessity of solitude he has been feeling since he woke up on that hospital bed, unable to distract himself through workout sessions and entire days locked up on a motocross track, his usual outlets. Watching Jose and Alex race, with the shadow of prohibition looming over him has proved to be harder tham he thought and to be honest, he seriously doubts that sinking down the cushions of his sofa while he plays one film after another will feel any better, but at this point, he doesn't even know what could possibly help lifting his mood.  
  
Alex holds his stare, his unwavaring expression incredibly firm, as if daring Marc to come up with an excuse. But what could he possibly say? He presumes his little brother already knows what is this all about, even if he's giving Marc the opportunity to tell him himself. The problem is that he's not even sure he's ready to talk about it, not even with Alex.  
  
"I know" he nods, nonetheless. Because he _knows_. He's perfectly aware of the fact that his brother is there to listen anything he has to say. But not now "But it's okay, I promise I won't do anything I shouldn't"  
  
Alex visibly loses some the stiffness he previously showed, as if finally giving up on the big brother act. It nearly gets a smile out of Marc, makes him wonder when it has become so easy for them to switch roles. When Alex has matured that much.  
  
"Okay, then" his little brother concedes, leaving the spot he had been occupaying on Marc's mattress to get a hold of the half folded shirt he's had on his hand for the last couple of minutes. Alex adopts the same resigned voice tone his mom have been saying everything with since she understood that there was nothing she could say to make him change his mind "Need help with that?"

~*~

  
  
_Tuesday 18th December, 2018_

  
  
"Call us if you need anything, okay?" His dad glently pats the back of his head, a gesture Marc has been used to since he was a kid, even if today he feels anything but childish.  
  
"I will and I may not need the phone to contact you" he assents, allowing himself to slip in a light joke, the corners of his mouth lifting unconciously "Might as well shout"  
  
"Not funny" Alex's voice reaches his ears from behind, and Marc doesn't need to see him to imagine the playful glare his back must be receiving "By the way, Jose and I will pick you up tomorrow morning. And I'm not accepting a no for an answer"  
  
He rolls his eyes when the young rider enters his range of vision, the expression his features have contorted in, more cheeky and bratty than Marc expected. And he can't deny the way his heart clenches, when the prospect of spending a morning on the motocross track changes radically from the promising plan it used to be, now that he can't fully enjoy it himself. However, he appreciates deeply Alex's efforts and attempts of distraction.  
  
"Okay" he reluctantly agrees, anyway, shoving his little brother teasingly, doing his best to keep inside the helpless protest to let himself be flooded by this sudden wave of brotherly affection he's momentarily assaulted by, instead "I have no choice, do I?"  
  
"You don't" Alex grins, evidently proud of himself, and this time, he can't help the sincere smile that streches his lips "See you tomorrow"  
  
"Take care, son" he lowers his eyelids briefly when his dad's lips meet his temple, again, his warm gaze reassuring Marc as fast as it did when his four years old self took his helmet off after a crash on the mini-bikes track. It's a good way to describe how he has been feeling during this weeks, as battered as if he had just suffered a bone wreaking highside.  
  
"Don't worry" he squeezes his forearm, going for his usual cheerful tone, simultaneously realizing that he hasn't been using it much lately.   
  
With one last wave, they make their way towards the hall and Marc would be completely incapable of finding an adjective to describe how he feels when the door eventually closes behind his dad and Alex's backs, once he's finally standing alone on the wide corridor of his house.  
  
He takes a deep breath, inhaling the sterile scent of new furniture and fresh paint, letting his eyes wonder throught the pristine space. The heating is on and yet it feels so cold, compared to the inherent warmth that always floods his childhood house. It will take a while for this to feel any close to home.  
  
He leisurely paces around the living room, caressing the polished surface of the empty shelves with his right hand, before heading towards the kitchen, grinning weakly at the fridge, which is already exaggeratedly full with dishes his mom had prepared for him.  
  
He finally ends up on the room, the bed looking way bigger now than it did when he chose it. He lies down, nonetheless, filling his lungs to the maximum with as much oxygen as he can, staring directly at the ceiling, the visual information no longer important when his mind starts taking over.  
  
He didn't know it would hit him this hard; owning his own place. He didn't thought it would suddenly make him feel this...grown up, this disturbingly alone. Yet, it's what he needs, a few days on his own, even if it's a brand new need, something he didn't thought he would ever yearn for.  
  
Everything would be alright, in the end. _Time heals all the wounds._

At least, it helped in the past.  
  
He closes his eyes, pushing those memories that keep on haunting him to the back of his mind, hoping that for once, the protagonist of his dreams will change.  
  
There is no such luck.

~*~

  
  
It's strange; hearing the sound of the doorbell not being followed by his mom's _I'll get it_ or by Alex's even footsteps.  
  
He blinks, repeatedly, fighting to push sleepiness out of his eyelids, to scape the foggy atmosphere his head it's surrounded by, completely disoriented.  
  
The room it's already dark, the sky devoid of light, visible through the blinds, being the reason for it. He swiftly reaches for his phone, cringing when his mind seems to forget that his left shoulder is still convalescent. He narrows his eyes when the light of the screen violently hits his pupils.  
  
19:35.  
  
Of course. He hates how limited the amount of hours of sun is in winter, how short it makes the days seem. His back cracks when he sits up, readjusting the sling to alleviate the light chafing the string of the sling is creating on the opposite side of his neck.  
  
The doorbell rings again as he makes his way downstairs, prompting him to stop dead on his tracks. It's not fear, but it might be the first time in his whole life he's not sure if answering it's a good idea. Not many people knew the location of his new house, they have been especially cautious about it, not sharing the information more people than necessary.  
  
He takes a deep breath, forcing his suddenly paranoid thoughts out of his mind. It might be Alex, bringing him something he must have forgotten, or even his mom, checking up on him. Marc doesn't even want to imagine the fuss they would make if he doesn't respond.  
  
Decidedly, he nearly skips the last couple of treads, risking another injury that would have definitely given his family the perfect opportunity to utter the _told you so_ he bets they are dying to say.  
  
He feels as if the process of opening the door had been executed in slow motion when he faces who is waiting at the other side.  
  
His mouth dries completely, his train of thought abruptly cut when his heart stops it's activity for several seconds, seriously doubting if he's still dreaming, drown on his nap. Because there is no way this could be happening, otherwise.  
  
"How is the shoulder?" Nonetheless an apparently pretty real Valentino Rossi asks.

~*~

  
  
Valentino spends a few minutes on the seat of the rented car, fingers drumming nervously against the steering wheel, staring at the evidently new dwelling, erected a few meters away from the parked vehicle.  
  
He gulps, the knot that started forming during the first hours on the road getting even tighter, not bothered by the lightest trace of tiredness. His nerves revolve, at their peak of intensity and it's honestly ridiculous; how similar the feeling he's experimenting right now is to the one that only floods him when he and his Yamaha are on the grid and the lights are about to dissapear.  
  
To be honest, he's taking a huge risk here, asking the younger Marquez for the address already hazardous enough, even if he had obviously gotten what he wanted, in the end; a location to guide his being towards. He's not willing to analyse what's happening inside him, what could be going on for him to do something this crazy. He's not ready at all to accept what it could mean. For now, he's okay with acknowledging the fact that he needs to see him, see how he's truly doing, even if the young rider kicks him out in a matter of seconds.  
  
He fills his lungs to the brim, cause thay might be another issue. Valencia and that awful conversation in a lost corridor at the gala had been replaying nonstop on his memory, no matter how high he had raised the volume of the radio. Marc's heartbroken expression is not something easy for him to forget and waiting a whole month to fix it up has already been challenging enough. He can't take it any longer.  
  
With one last deep inhalation and before he has time to regret it, he grabs his travel bag and pushes the door of the grey Audi open. The freezing wind of December hits his body like a truck, sending chills all over his limbs. It's way colder in Cervera than it was in Tavullia and suddenly, he really misses the thicker coat he left hanging on his closet. He settles with forcing the hem of his beanie a little bit lower, so it covers his presumably red ears completely. His rapid breaths briefly hang in the air like fleeting clouds of smoke while he strolls towards the intimidating entrance.  
  
He doesn't know how many minutes he spends with his finger hovering over the doorbell button, maybe just one or perhaps thirty, trying to give his heart a little bit of time to bring down its rhythm. When he finally pushes it, the sound filters his ears excesively high, nearly disturbing, not doing any favor to his already agitated mood, as if loads of angry neighbours were about to appear out of nowhere to shout at him, even if the closest houses are more than three hundred meters away, at least. He shakes his head, busying his overactive brain with counting the seconds that pass without a response. A lot of possible scenarios cross his mind, each worse than the previous one. Maybe Alex lied to him and...  
  
He rings again, not allowing himself to complete that thought. He hasn't been driving all day to give up now, if some crazy photographer was about to humilliate him, better putting and end to it as soon as possible.  
  
When the door finally opens, his throat closes abruptly and he definitely shouldn't be this surprised to find the startled expression of who he had precisely come to see.

~*~

  
  
The mix of feelings that flutter inside his ribcage is so chaotic that for a moment, Marc doesn't know if he is shocked, happy, annoyed, confused or all of them at once.  
  
The trivial question is left unanswered, for the first time since the surgery, he forgets completely about the damned shoulder, his thoughts too occupied with the surreal vision he finds himself in front of.  
  
Valentino's eyes instantly find his, erasing any remnant of rational thinking, cause if he didn't know better, Marc would have sworn the italian looked almost relieved. Nearly glad to see him.  
  
He remains frozen under the doorframe, battling to come up with something to say that won't make him look as stupid as he feels while his brain keeps on conjuring explanations for the older's presence there. There. In his home town, standing on his door.  
  
_There_.  
  
For a couple of dangerous seconds, he almost can't suffocate the desire to throw himself into Valentino's arms.  
  
"C-can I come in?" His blue eyes wander over a bunch of different spots, anywhere but Marc’s face, and it doesn't help extinguishing his fervent need to pull the Yamaha rider closer.  
  
He eventually gets his muscles to cooperate and step aside, not able to take his attention away from Valentino for a single second. He wonders if he has blinked at all in the last five minutes.  
  
The thud provoked by the door being closed makes them both jump lightly, the twitch almost imperceptible on the older's already pretty tense shoulders. His brain is boiling with so many questions and inquiries that he's sure steam could start emanating out of his ears any moment now like a pressure cooker. Not that his tongue would be capable of voicing them, either way. Not if it is this roughly dry after noticing the travel bag that comes with the italian. At this point, he's certain his entire body is going to collapse due to the havoc of assumptions, theories and suppositions shapeshifting within him, none of them logical. Especially after their last private encounter, which he had hoped and feared at the same time that would be the last one.  
  
"What are you doing here?" He unsteadily lets out, his voice at the verge of breaking. The question is mandatory, even if the response it's pretty evident itself. He doubts Valentino came because he wanted to visit Cervera, yet he can't think of anything better to say, the possibility too overwhelming to being even considered.  
  
The italian comes to a halt, burying his hands on the pockets of his sweatpants before turning on his heels to look at Marc directly. An awfully intense wave of chills shakes him up when that look falls on him, its crazy effect not decreasing in the slightlest.  
  
He tries to stabilize the cadence of his breathing, when Valentino strolls closer, gradually getting rid of the distance separating them until that very moment.  
  
He promises himself he won't back off, even when the reflex of taking a few steps back becomes impressively strong. But it's his house, and if someone has to give an explanation, that's Vale.  
  
Still, air gets stuck at the base of his throat when the older rider stops centimeters away from him, when he sees himself in the need of looking up to maintain the visual connection, being once again drown in that exact shade of blue he had never been able to put a name to.  
  
"I wanted to see you" Valentino's tone sounds more raspy than usual, and Marc's heart did not skip several beats because of it.  
  
He has to hold back from pinching himself, to check that he's in fact not under the effects of the insane amount of painkillers he has swallowed down in the last weeks, hallucinating.  
  
But whether he is or not, the surge of fulfilment that takes over him at the twinkle of sincerity on Valentino's gaze is indeed very real. In that exact moment, he has to stop himself from grinning like an idiot. All of a sudden, Valencia looks incredibly far way, like a distant dream, all the uneasiness he has felt since then slowly decreasing. _Because he's here._

 _Here_.  
  
"Do you plan on staying for a while?" Marc finally lowers his eyelids, playfully gesturing at the italian's light luggage before resuming his detailed observation.  
  
The older faintly tilts his head back, his eyes narrowing as if trying to discern Marc's authentic feelings about it, which are suddenly horribly hard to conceal, especially when the Yamaha rider has the nerve to shrug, that smirk threatening the corners of his lips.  
  
"Until you decide to kick me out"


	13. Chapter 13

 

The way to the living room seems eight kilometers long, Valentino's nervousness still at its peak, the soles of his trainers as if made of lead. He tries to resist the urge of turning around every two steps to make sure that Marc is indeed following him and he is not lost in some cruelly senseless delusion. To make sure that he has actually done it and Marc hasn't shut the door on his face.  
  
It's evident that the place has been uninhabited until that very afternoon. The house is not what he expected, even though he doesn't even know what he anticipated, in the first place. But all that white neatness and minimalism is not like Marc at all. He guesses it will take a while for the kid's bright and lively personality to reflect on it.  
  
"You can take the guest room" Marc hoarsely mumbles behind him, forcing Valentino to stretch his hearing ability to the limit. He turns his neck, searching for those black eyes he has longed to look at for weeks. It's hard to admit it, but the tiny rush of hope he had felt overwhelmed by earlier, deflates a bit. Is not as if he had expected Marc's invitation to sleep together _(Just plain, inocent sleep, mind you)_ but the way his chest sinks a little only proves that he wasn't as ready to face the indirect rejection as he thought he was "Alex got it ready in case he wanted to drop by"  
  
His brow jerks up instantly, the shadow of a chuckle hiding behind the briefly twitchy corner of his lips. _So that's the excuse the younger Marquez had come up with?_  
  
"Good. Thanks" he grins fleetingly, taking advantage of the moment to analyse Marc's transfixed expression. Valentino swears he could clearly see the gears of that overactive mind of his through the younger's pupils if he stared close enough, the whirlwind of thoughts plaguing Marc's head beyond evident due to the constant little movements his body effectuates, like the even tapping of his foot against the marbled floor or the nearly compulsive amount of times his right hand hikes up his torso to rearrange the position of the sling.  
  
"How did yo-?" Marc's mouth doesn't get to complete the question before understanding clouds his gaze, his sharp jaw dropping slightly at the realization "Wait, it was him, right? I can't believe it..."  
  
"He was a bit reluctant" Valentino shrugs, way more amused by the Honda rider's reaction than he would care to admit, the incredulity latent on his face turning out to be rather adorable. Bewildered, endearingly confused Marc is a sight he doesn't get to see often, so distant from the facade of security he uses to wear around most of the time. But he has just discovered how much he likes being able to bring down those walls. The smirk that crosses his features, nearly bordering on smugness, is irrepresible "For obvious reasons. But I can be pretty persuasive"  
  
That's true, Marc's little brother had been nothing if not cautious, an unexpectedly hard nut to crack, winning the Moto2 rider over not an easy task, making him utter more pleas than necessary, something he would have never groveled for if he was someone else. But it had been worth it.

So, so worth it.  
  
"I should have figured, can hardly imagine you not getting what you want" the words devoid of volume are whispered under his breath, giving the impression that he had been talking to himself. But Valentino is not that old yet, his ears are still perfectly operational.  
  
And he nearly snorts out loud at the affirmation, because he differs. Completely. He wouldn't have gone through such a shitty season if he always got what he asks for. He wouldn't have endured more than two years with Jorge on the other part of the box if he always got his way.  
They wouldn't be in this position, in the first place, if that was the slightlest bit true and he always managed to obtain what he desires.  
  
"Are you sure about that?" In spite of the still present lopsided grin he bears, he wouldn't have to look at himself in a reflective surface to check that his look must have hardened considerably.  
  
Valentino is perfectly aware the exact moment the atmosphere changes, the exact instant the temperature seems to drop, even if it's not altered by a single degree. He stares at Marc thoroughly, because the boy standing in front of him is the living proof of how untruthful and inaccurate that is. Because Marc embodies perfectly the gnawing _I want but I can't_ that Valentino fights and battles with every time he's minimally close to the champion. The fact that the younger is so certain about his fulfilled wishes seems a bad joke.  
  
"Y-you should leave your things upstairs, second door to the left" Marc's jaw clenches, the tense movement evident when a faint line appears shortly under his cheekbone to dissapear just as quickly. And Valentino knows that sharp mind of his has caught the message, the topic ended.  
  
"I'll be right back" he exhales deeply, doing a half turn, for once, relieved to break the too intense connection their gazes have established.  
  
He follows the indicated direction, finding the same clean, nondescript atmosphere on the second floor. He takes his time before entering the room Marc has designated him, and even though he would prefer not being that far away from the younger, the bedroom is definitely not something to complain about. It's ridiculously spacious, the nightly scenery iluminated by the streetlamps perfectly visible through the impressively wide window. He hopes the curtains are thick enough to block the crazy amount of light they'll for sure let in, in the morning.  
  
Letting the string of his travel bag fall off his shoulder it's strangely relieving. It hits the presumably fluffy mattress with a soft thud and for a moment, he's tempted to try it out himself as if he was the protagonist in some cheesy comedy, which he would have done if he wasn't certain that he will fall asleep as soon as he lies down over anything the slightlest bit comfortable. Not to mention that his brain is having a hard time accepting that he'll spend the night at Marc's.  
  
He leaves his coat on one of the multiple hangers of the empty wardrobe and allows himself to stop by the bathroom to wash his face on the way, aiming for a look than won't convey how exhausted he is.  
  
He sighs profoundly when his own eyes return his gaze through the mirror. Unfortunately, the dark nuance under his lower lash line can only be removed by a decently long night of sleep. He lets the cold water rest on his face for a bunch of seconds, the refreshing effect helping with clearing out the hurricane of thoughts that keeps on spinning inside his head uncontrollably. He does his best to silence every single one of them, cause he hasn't showed up here to drown on his sorrows or to get lost in between his confusing sentiments. He could have done that at home, as well.  
  
The engraved memory of Marc's expression after his surprise appearance pops up without warning, awakening a sickeningly intense flutter on his stomach. And it worries him to a certain extent, because those fleeting seconds had made the never ending day on the road completely worth it. He would repeat it over and over again if it provided him with that sight every single time. He can't deny how good it felt to witness the effect his own presence still has on Marc, and especially, how addictive it is.  
  
He rubs the clean towel against his features, until his flesh itches slightly, as if forcing the guilt and the remorses away. Guilt because being there doesn't feel as wrong as it should. Not in the slightlest.  
  
He leisurely makes his way dowstairs, kind of afraid of what might happen next and astonishingly eager to find out, at the same time. Curiosity gets the best of him, as expected, and his feet take him to the kitchen on their own, oriented by the faint sound of cabinet doors being opened and closed. He finds the main character of his thoughts standing by the central isle, glass of water in hand.  
  
Marc's eyes find his instantly, momentarily iluminated by a twinkle whose origin Valentino wouldn't be able to put a finger on. He would like to think that the spaniard is as the delighted to see him as Valentino is, in spite of how utterly wrong their last encounter in that gala went, even though if Marc eyes him more carefully than before as he makes his way into the room.  
  
He came to fix it, after all, and he was going to do so.  
  
"Nice house" he comments flatly, sauntering towards him as evenly as possible, hoping that his stride won't betray how unsteady he feels.  
  
"Glad you like it" Marc talks lowly, twisting the empty glass around the still spotless counter with the fingers of his right hand, giving away that he couldn't care less about anyone's opinion on the matter.

 _I'm not here to see your new home, though_.  
  
He comes to a halt when there's an acceptable distance separating them, where he can finally settle his full attention on Marc, up close and without interruptions.  
  
He thought it had been his bugging, paranoid worry what had tricked his first impression, but now that the image is unwavering before him, he confirms that Marc does in fact look a bit skinnier, his high cheekbones that little bit more prominent than usual, his overall appearance that bit slimmer. It would probably go unnoticed for everyone else, but not for him. He knows Marc well enough for that to be beyond evident to him.  
  
"You didn't answer my question earlier. How is the shoulder?" He repeats, hastily lunging forward to steady the glass the moment it tumbles out of Marc's reach, his reflexes jumping out straight away.  
  
"B-better. Still pretty useless, but it doesn't hurt as much as it did two weeks ago" he analyses the vague, ambiguous reply painstakingly, the younger's discontent obvious on the unusual roughness present on his voice tone.  
  
And that, he understands.  
  
"You miss racing, don't you?" He inquiries, now being the one fidgeting with the transparent object, reminiscing vividly that awful weekend of Misano, the flashbacks outstandingly sharp.  
  
Despite the fact that it had been almost one year and a half ago, sometimes he can still lower his eyelids and remember those agonizing days as clear as if they had taken place the previous day. He understands perfectly how incomplete Marc must feel now. How that resting period resembles the most twisted of tortures. The terribly deep hole it leaves behind, uniquely offset the moment he finally got to pass his leg over the seat of a bike, the moment he got to hear the roar of the engine and his fingers closed around the handlebars. He might not be the damaged one now, yet the memory of the anxiety strikes him violently. He comprehends what's like to feel that you are missing a part of you. He recalls quite well how far down he buried the recurrent possibility of retirement after that. He can't even bring himself to consider it yet, once he has experienced how unbearable tough is seeing the races and not being on track. The sour recollection hits him in a wave of goosebumps.  
  
"I can't work out, I can barely use my left arm, I can't ride a bike. I feel like shit, to be honest" Marc's lost expression is too much to handle for an instant, and Valentino has to physically refrain from enveloping him in a tight embrace. For a flashing moment it's as if they were back in Yamaha's box in Montmeló, that warm summer of 2008 and a fifteen years old Marc was staring at his, apparently, pretty interesting sneakers. During a couple of seconds ephemeral seconds, he looks scarily young.  
  
"Believe me, I know" he clears his throat, pressing his teeth against the skin of his lower lip when the younger abruptly blinks to look back up at him. And he knows that he doesn't need to implore Marc's belief. He's well aware of the fact that the spaniard knows by heart that he's not simply agreeing to go along with it, if the softening of his stunning gaze is anything to go by "When I broke my leg I thought I would go crazy. I would also have asked them to leave me alone if the injury hadn't been that serious"  
  
And that's true. He can't say he doesn't comprehends Marc's sudden need to be on his own, as foolish and crazy as it might seem for everyone else. He would have seriously weighed the option of doing the same if he had been able to fend for himself back then.  
  
"I just needed some time for myself" Marc reiterates in a whisper what Valentino already assumed, the clearing up unnecessary. However, he can't deny the bubbly throb that the champion's honest thoughts and confidences provoke within him.  
  
"I hope I haven't ruined those plans" he mumbles on an undertone, as well, not wanting to disturb the pleasant atmosphere created, but seriously hoping for a negative response now that he has just realized that he's the one standing on the way to Marc's desired solitude. The thought brings a sour smirk to his mouth, because even tough he wants nothing more than staying, he'll leave immediatly if the kid asks him to.  
  
"You haven't" Without warning, Marc takes a step forward, the glint flashing across that face awakening a tingling sensation on Valentino's guts when warm fingers interlace themselves with his. And he doesn't need the young rider to say it out loud. The _thank you_ hidding behind his maddeningly perfect, genuine smile is self explanatory enough as it is. He doesn't think he needs words to reply, either. For once, he settles with squeezing back, letting his thumb caress the skin of Marc's hand "Are you hungry?"  
  
This time, the light chuckles they both let out are nearly shyncronized, quickly morphing into a smoother grin. Only Marc could end the moment that charmingly.  
  
Eventually, they gather the courage to let go of the other. However, his eyes don't lose the unwavering contact, neither of them lets it happen.  
  
"Dinner time, isn't it?" He beams, feeling all the previously accumulated tension evaporate.  
  
And he can't deny that he enjoys too much Marc's sudden inability to keep himself far from Valentino's body.

~*~

  
  
Marc's mom cooking skills are to die for, he muses while he takes the fork close to his mouth once again and even though he's not bad at it himself, it would have nothing on this.  
  
The scene they are immersed in could have been extracted from one of Valentino's most intricate reveries. It's not a big deal, definitely nothing out of this world, however, having dinner with Marc, peacefully and alone, just the two of them, is not something he would have considered remotely possible, especially after the unfortunate turn of events they have recently gone through.  
  
"You like it?" He gestures to Valentino's nearly empty plate, and if the mischievious shadow hovering over his face is a good indication of it, he doesn't need the confirmation he just pressed for.  
  
"It's amazing" he admits without batting and eyelid, following the recognition with the last bite. Definitely, he likes the sight of Marc's amused glances a little bit too much "Congratulate your mom for me"  
  
It comes nearly out of reflex, horribly absent-minded, the inside of his cheek being instantly bitten. He doesn't notice how preposterous the sentence is until he hears it out loud, on his own voice, obviously, uttered without a second thought.  
  
"Of course. I wonder how will she react when I tell her that Valentino Rossi loved her tortilla" Marc snickers sardonically, his distinctive laugh surprisingly pleasant against Valentino's eardrums after such a long time without hearing when the Repsol rider recovers impressively quickly from the initial shock. And it's kind of relieving, verifying that the kid isn't bothered by the not so positive implication. Either way, he's aware of the motives and reasons that must have contributed to the mistrust of Marc's family.  
  
"Right. She'll probably cut off your medicines supply, dreading the effect they must have started to have on your sanity" he goes for a jest, again, not wanting to break the relaxed ambient the are surrounded by, with grim facts. And it seems to work, the chime of Marc's giggles instantly disolving the momentary clenching of Valentino's stomach. A comfortable silence plummets over the table, only combined with the clinging of the cutlery against the ceramic of the plates and the light, faint clash of the glasses on the marble surface. It takes him a few seconds to notice that Marc's has been staring at him the whole time, his warm irises unreadable, nearly boring a hole on Valentino's flesh "What?"  
  
He can't help the automatic question, slightly muffled by the napkin fleetingly pressed against his mouth, desperately yearning to know what could be going on that head. Now that he thinks about it, it's something he had wanted to know since Marc opened the door of the dwelling. It never ceases to amaze him, how difficult it's to read the Honda rider in spite of his astonishingly loud, outgoing nature.  
  
"No, nothing" the champion mumbles sheepishly and Vale feels a rush of heat making its way down his ribcage at the vision of an almost bashful Marc.  
  
During a few milliseconds, he's enveloped by the distinct sensation of deja vu, given how familiar and common the busted observation used to be years ago. It abruptly makes him realize how bad he has missed those glances. The fact that Marc can still look at him like that, taking into account all he has done and said since then, it's nearly mind-blowing.  
  
"Are you done?" He clears his throat, aiming for the dissolution of the chocking knot sticking to the walls of his breathing channel all of a sudden. The squeaking of the chair against the floor it's too loud for his liking when he stands up, gathering the the utensils on his void dinner plate, looking for something to busy himself with instead of Marc and every distracting trait the kid owns.  
  
"Yeah, I'll...no, absolutely no" Marc is on his feet before he has time to reach out for the spaniard's cutlery, shaking his head vehemently.  
  
"Marc" His name slips off Valentino's tongue disguised as an unimpressed sigh when the younger literally tucks them away from him, the motion rather comical due to the limited range of movement at his disposal.  
  
"No way I'm letting you do the washing up" he refuses stubbornly, his look nothing but determined. _As usual._  
  
"Oh shut up, how the heck do you think you'll do it with one hand, champ?" He smirks blantantly, quite amused by the thought itself. However, he can't deny he expected something of that sort, his persistence and admirable obstinacy not unknown for Valentino. It's simply so like Marc to go for something with all he has, as impossible as it might seem. It's indeed one of his favorite qualities of him.  
  
"I could" The confident affirmation doesn't throw him off in the slightlest, yet his eyebrows raise, trying badly to conceal his diversion at Marc's unwavering conviction. _I would like to see you try_ "It will simply take a bit longer..."  
  
"Cut the crap, give me the damn plate" he extends his arm, supressing a fit of laughter when Marc pushes the piece of ceramic further behind him, smirking like a brat.  
  
"No"  
  
"Hand over the fucking plate" he takes a step towards him, only earning a even more smug reaction when the spaniard dodges him swiftly, a bubbly guffaw resonating against the walls. Moreover, it seems Marc doesn't have the intention, in the least, of doing what he has been told.  
  
"Language, Rossi, we don't swear in this house" he sniggers, tilting his chin up, clearly starting to enjoy the teasing a little bit too much, sending something electric up Vale's spine. When his try of courtesy had become this playful bickering Valentino has no idea "And if you want the plate, come to get it"  
  
He jaw sets suddenly at the challenge, the dangerous twinkle shinning on the spanish rider's gaze igniting a new sparkle underneath his skin, itching and tingling, encouraging him to rub off that cocky grin plastered on Marc's mouth.  
  
Valentino gets rid of the distance separating them in two rapid strides, this time, succesfully catching Marc unguarded as he corners his body against the counter.  
  
He's sure he'll meticulously memorize the exact way his impossibly dark pupils widen when only a few centimeters stand between them, keeping them from brushing, regardless of how extremely alluring it's turning out to be, the scent of Marc's cologne tremendously tempting, seeping in and reaching every corner of Valentino's nose.  
  
Not getting worked up becomes harder than he thought, especially if Marc looks up at him like _that_. He's sure that, later, he'll recall the precise rosy shade those damned tantalizing lips hold after being briefly bitten or the variation of that same colour that expands up to his chiseled cheekbones the moment Valentino angles his head to keep the ablaze connection intact while his hand smoothly seizes to snatch softly the demanded object out of his now pretty pliant fingers. However, the younger doesn't move in the slightlest, the irregular compass of his lungs as the only movement noticeable. Marc oozes some kind of restlessness very diverse from the one he uses to show.  
  
"Thanks" he derisively dares to whisper into his ear, his voice notably huskier, resulting from the narrow position his throat has acquired.  
  
Again, it's oddly satisfying, knowing that he can have that kind of effect on him with the most discrete or little of touches. Nevertheless and even if it was never the initial intention, the proximity plays a dirty trick on him, and Valentino is violently assaulted by an overpowering rush, a surge of want that pulls the strings of his body, something he would have loved to ignore, but he can't physically step back without planting a peck against the side of Marc's taut neck, the skin horribly warm and terribly soft when it makes contact with his lips. And the unmistakable gasped sigh he gets to rip off him is so worth it.  
  
The air flowing in between their chests is thick and loaded with things Valentino wouldn't even be able to identify. Marc's eyes don't lose sight of him for a single second, glistening hazardously from under his eyelashes as Valentino leans slightly back to look at him fully, also masking the chaotic state of his inner self with a conceited, small smirk of self-satisfaction that even then, it's not fake at all.  
  
The plate feels heavy on his hand now, the hard, cold material reminding him why had he come that close, in the first place as he finally paces backwards, retrieving his previous position. Besides, an evidently unsettled Marc, betrayed by the distraught movement of his Adam's apple or frantic tapping of his fingers against the surface behind him, trying in vain to conceal his agitation, is a quite entertaining sight to behold.  
  
Valentino grazes his earring while he turns around to clean up what's left on the table, needing that break to stop himself from giving in to the desire of coming close to the younger, willing self control to take over him when he takes everything to the sink Marc is still standing by. However, he doesn't stop him this time, simply limits himself to insinuate a lopsided smile when Valentino leisurely starts doing the washing up, not slower than necessary whatsoever.  
  
"Asshole" a sideways glance is enough to see Marc shaking his head, not an ounce of malice palpable between the syllables.  
  
"I thought you didn't swear in this house" he points out as guileless as he can before letting the grin he normally reserves to accompany an ironic answer for the press fall in place.  
  
Obviously, Marc nips at his bottom lip.  
  
And obviously, in order to avoid doing something stupid, Valentino has to look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, happy new year to everyone out there. I want to thank each one of you for every single kudo, comment and the general support you blessed me with. Thank your for being there and for sharing a little bit of your time with me during the past year, helping me go through the good and the bad moments. Hope you enjoyed so far, and I truly, sincerely wish that you reach all your goals and resolutions on this 2019 ;) Love you. 
> 
> Secondly, I just wanted to mention that from now on, I'll be available on tumblr with new content, as well, in case you want to drop by and say hi ♥️https://www.tumblr.com/blog/itshighlightlover
> 
> Again, thank you so much. See you on the next chapter!


	14. Chapter 14

 

It would have been nice to do something that wouldn't be heading straight to bed like old men, but in Valentino's defence, waking up at dawn to spend the whole day driving can take it's toll on you, even if normally, he would laugh his ass off at the mere idea of going to sleep that early, Luca's constant lectures about the importance of that healthy habit making its way out from the back of his mind. His little brother wouldn't believe his eyes if he saw him putting on his pyjama pants before ten.  
  
Still, Marc simply agrees when he voices his need, wearing a quite worn out expression himself. Even if he tries to shrug it off, he knows how emotionally draining the day must have been for the younger.  
  
They part ways when they reach the second floor, immediatly heading towards their respective rooms after the mandatory good night wishes, mustered under their breath way sooner than both of them would have liked. Valentino thought it would take him a bit longer to find sleep, his brain flooded with the events of the day, his chest with some kind of fulfilment he wouldn't dare naming. However, his drained body says enough when it finally lays over the soft mattress, and although he misses some kind of warmth by his side (whose form or gender he's not ready identify) his vision and conciousness turn off as soon as his head hits the pillow.

  
  
~*~

  
  
Marc groans as he tosses and turns (as much as his shoulder allows him to, anyway) for the tenth time in the last hour. Even the sheets bother him, at this point, too suffocating, too tight around his body. A huff of exasperation tumbles off his mouth when the watch on his bedside table adds another digit to the left part of the screen, evidencing his state of insomnia that won't let his overrun mind rest for a single minute.  
  
The previous nights, that constant, silent soreness on his recently repaired joint had been the one keeping him awake, however, he's aware that today, the reasons that hold the desired state of slumber out of his reach are entirely different.  
  
It still hasn't settled on his head. He has felt the urge of getting up and sneak into the guest room more than once, to check that it hadn't been a cruel delusion of his imagination. To make sure that Valentino is actually there and that, apparently, he does in fact _care_. Enough to travel all the way here. And the italian probably has no idea of how extensive is the commotion he has released. How violently he has demolished the convictions Marc has worked so hard to squeeze into his head since 2015, how abruptly he has knocked over the belief that the older never gave a fuck about him. Yet here he is, and if he thinks too much about what it may mean, he's sure he is going to combust.  
  
His heart quickens when his hand automatically jerks up to caress _that_ spot on his neck, when his brain comes across the most recent recollections after dinner. That asshole for sure knows how to drive Marc crazy, yet the most maddening thing is how easily he can disarm him and leave him as bare as if he was standing there naked, with nothing to cover up his feelings with. However, he's not that sure he wants to keep doing it anymore. Not when his inner self shouts that he should be making the most of Valentino's visit, without brooding about the _mustn'ts_ and _shouldn'ts_ that loom over his mind and asphyxiate him whenever he's assaulted by the urge of pulling the italian closer, not caring anymore about what might happen next.

Wasn't he the one always proclaiming that he must seize every moment and live the present? Wasn't he the one always letting his instict loose to find the limit? It might be the first time he realizes how much supressing his nature is exhausting him.  
  
Maybe he should let the part of him that has made him a champion, take over. He was already hurting, what would it change, anyway?  
  
The buzz of his phone against the surface of his bedside table disipates his musing out of the blue. A short _all good?_ shows up under Alex's name on their WhatsApp conversation and for a moment, Marc is torn between telling his brother to go to hell for this dirty trick or being forever grateful for making this happen. The latter option is immediatly discarded, if he wants to go through the holidays without it all going up his brother's head. So far, he simply settles with a neutral response with the pretty self-evident emoji showing the middle finger.

 

~*~

  
  
Valentino doesn't do mornings.  
  
At all.  
  
Everyone knows it. His dad knows it. Uccio knows it. Luca and Clara know it. Francesca knows it. The Academy boys know it. His mom has always known it. Even his cat and dogs beware from seeking attention before noon. But apparently, if he's under Marc's roof, his own body doesn't know that it's not supposed to be active yet.  
  
The watch of his phone shows him a combination of numbers that he hasn't woken up to see in years on a race-less weekend, at least. However, it's not that information what worries him the most, but the insistent notifications that jump up as soon as he has introduced the password. Uccio's name is the first one he drowsily notices, a couple of unread messages from the night before looking right back at him accusingly.  
  
Faint, distant clinking seeps in through his still buzzing ears, probably coming from the main floor and he needs a bunch of stray seconds to join the dots and piece together that he's not in his bedroom, not in Tavullia, not in Italy whatsoever.

Valentino locks the phone without a second thought, shamelessly ignoring his best friend's and girlfriend's questions, to which none he can respond sincerily, and rolls over, obliging his back to rest against the mattress fully, his nape quickly drowning into the stuffed pillowcase while his fingers absently wander in between his short, already slightly curly strands. He takes in his surroundings with a profound exhalation, the illumination gradually entering through the blinds still acceptably dim.  
  
Had he been back home and he wouldn't have hesitated to turn around, bury his face further into the sheets and continue lazing around somnolence. But not today, cause he's not at home and there is an odd, new sort of tingling pulling, gripping and nabbing his guts, persistently reminding him that _he_ is near, a few meters away. He perceives, in that very moment, how much he's looking forward to being any close to the younger rider again. And it's not as much of an strange feeling as he has initially thought. It used to be normal yet it has been buried deep down by himself, hidden for a long while. Since that year when everything went to hell.  
  
He rubs his lids with his slightly cold fingertips, probably losing an eyelash or two in the process, his hand moving to his ear immediatly after to correct the position of his silvery little hoop, always altered on his sleep. His vertebrae articulate the usual crack when he eventually contracts the muscles of his abdomen to sit up. Although the temperature it's pretty pleasant, the hair on his flesh stands on end when he shoves the covers backwards. He should probably put on a shirt or something to cover himself with.  
  
Valentino strolls barefoot along the hallway, in search of the bathroom, his steps silent and sluggish against the tiles before he gets to drag himself into the shower. The string of scalding water soaking his face finally manages to wake him up completely, sleepiness dropping off his eyes within seconds. Still, he spends more minutes than necessary under the shower head, staring at the drain but not really looking at it, absolutely lost in thought. Known faces flash across his vision, each more disproving than the previous one, _hers_ stubbornly sticking to the back of his mind, hoging the spotlight she likes so much, increasing tenfold the sickening sensation of culpability that installed on his insides since he started the engine of the car to come here.  
  
His stomach revolves in an unpleasant roll when he turns violently to make the water supply come to a halt, the weight of his mental activity too oppressive, nearly choking, the pressing necessity to occupy his mind with something else, anything, becoming overwhelming.  
  
He is thankful for the fact that the fogged up mirror prevents him from seeing his own reflection once he has stepped out of the cubicle, especially when the sight of the pile of clean towels by the washbasin make his lips curl into a badly repressed smile he hates himself for. Marc must have put them there the previous night, when he was already fast asleep and even though it appears as the most meaningless gesture ever, he can feel the pressure on his ribcage getting lighter.  
  
He makes quick work of getting dressed, going for a plain hoodie and the most comfortable pair of sweats he owns, unaware of the plans Marc may have for the day. If he has any at all. That reminds him that he came here without knowing what to expect, blindly looking for Marc's company, regardless of the situation it might let them in.

 

~*~

  
The agreeable, appealing smell of coffee coming from the kitchen violently strikes his nostrils when he reaches the end of the staircase, cutting his train of thought without warning. He lets his shoulder lean against the doorframe, his eyes instantly fixing themselves on the figure by the counter, first cursing his own self for not preparing mentally and beforehand against the possibility of something like _this_ and secondly, cursing the kid for not wearing a damned t-shirt in the morning, in the first place.  
  
"Buongiorno" he rasps when he eventually finds his voice, done with the momentarily stagnation that has nothing to do with the sight on display. _Absolutely not._  
  
Marc twists around at a speed that would have made Valentino dizzy, evidently startled.  
  
"Hey. I didn't expect you to be up this early" the spaniard gulps before blowing away the steam swirling out of the mug he sustains with his right hand.  
  
_Trust me, that makes two of us._  
  
Valentino's eyes immediatly fall on the pale purple bruise partially hidden beneath the greyish strap of the sling, breaking the even tonality of the younger's tan skin, expanded enough to reach the tip of Marc's collarbone and the beginning of his biceps in a shapeless pattern. However, the exact tone of light violet available for him to see, appeases Valentino greatly, something he can indentify and judge as normal due to his previous post-surgery experiences. _Good_. It's already fading.

Already healing.  
  
"Wait, did I wake you? I know that you don't rise early on a normal basis" Marc inquiries quickly while his stance variates enough to evidence the state of alert that Valentino's prensence has apparently provoked. But it's not that what momentaneously throws him off, but the fact that Marc's remembers such a detail of his own bunch of personal habits, probably spilled unconciously during one of those conversations they used to have when they were just two riders hanging out and there was no danger awaiting beyond the limits they had had to trace after the worst end of season that Valentino recalls, obviously, not counting 2011. And how naturally and easily Marc drops it off, matter-of-factly, leaves him absurdly speechless for a matter of seconds "I've tried to be as quiet as possible but it's not easy to prepare coffee with one hand, you kno-"  
  
"Don't sweat it, _bambino_ " he pushes himself to react and cut Marc's explanation, the carefully stored nickname sneaking into the reassuring sentence before he has the power to stop it. He forces himself to not read too much into the way it makes the young rider's pupils widen "You didn't disturb my sleep. I woke up on my own. Perhaps it was the bed"  
  
He voices it absently as he steps a meter closer to Marc, shrugging and trying with all to not let his gaze drop below the spaniard's pupils, in order to avoid getting distracted by the surely evident muscles on the younger's upper part. Simply imagining them is already enough of a silent torture, he's definitely not willing to test his self-control that recklessly.  
  
"What, the mattress wasn't of your liking?" One of Marc's eyebrows wiggles with the obviously teasing question, the gesture followed right after by a little sip on the steamy liquid he has been holding since Valentino made it into the kitchen, clearly giving away that he hasn't taken the comment about the bed as a reproach. And Valentino is nearly tempted to smirk, to blatantly voice what's on his mind. _Too big, too cold for me alone_ "We should check if there is a pea under it"  
  
This time, with the unexpectedly amusing fairytale reference, he can do nothing to conceal the fleeting grin that conquers his facial expression for some milliseconds.  
  
"Ha, ha, very funny" he articulates as flat and sardonically as he can, refraining from giving Marc the satisfaction of that smile that is already appearing against his will "If you weren't an impatient little shit maybe you could have let me help, instead"  
  
The brat has the nerve to beam, changing the weigh distribution of his body from one leg to the other, his movements already as fluid and graceful as usual, unnaturally so at this hour in the morning.  
  
"Are you offering to make me breakfast?" Marc questions lowly, blatantly making eyes at Valentino while he skims a hand over his captivatingly messy hair, his dark wavy strands falling unruly over his forehead, probably conforming the most effortlessly unkept image he has ever seen of the young rider. And there's is no point in denying how much he's enjoying the view, anymore.  
  
"Are you asking me to?" He tilts his head back, stretching the immaterial thread that connects their gazes together. A thrilling shock makes it down his spine when the narrowing movement of the younger's eyes tells him that he has successfully turn the tables, hit a sensible spot.  
  
"You wish" the Repsol rider grins widely, his inherent stubborness peaking, as Valentino expected, not giving in in the slightlest. Even though he's more than sure that the kid would be delighted to see him in that scenario "I can look after myself"  
  
"I can see that" he nods mockingly towards the immobilesed shoulder, frowning into an exaggerated motion of agreement while he finally forces his body to act and start looking for a cup to pour the bit of coffee his brain his shouting for.  
  
"Oh, fuck off" Marc swears, eyeing him with evidently feigned disdain before he turns to face the cabinet behind him and reach for the type of mug Valentino was searching for, obviously not intending to hand it over straight away "Besides, this wasn't even my fault"  
  
"Of course not, I'm sure that more than twenty crashes per season had nothing to do with the state of your shoulder" Valentino muses lightly, perfectly aware of the possible, humilliating comebacks that statement could be followed by.

He doesn't even reach for the cup the Repsol rider has started to fidget with, the scene already too similar to the one they went through last night. Today, he's determined to wait patiently and let Marc play around as much as he wants.  
  
"That was a low blow, Rossi. I won't respond to that for the sake of your sensitivity" Marc coyly comfirms his suspicion with a lopsided grin accompanying his mischievious, harmless threat. Because he might have got the prize for the rider with more crashes in the premier class, yet that didn't stop him from winning everything else while Valentino has done nothing but swallow disappointment after disappointment "Okay, now seriously. Did you sleep well?"  
  
The suddenly earnest tone slipping in between Marc's words make Valentino snap out of his brief stupor, taking him aback even further when he offhandedly starts pouring some of the dark, steamy liquid on the large, white cup himself. Even much less expected is the genuine interest oozing off Marc's look, his streak of good host apparently showing up.  
  
"I did" he confesses rather sincerely, immediatly receiving one of the younger's trademark smiles back. All in all, his energy levels regarding the previous day ones are definetely much better. Still, his judgement could be under the influence of how utterly tired he was. He bets he would have fallen asleep on the carpet by the entrance if he had had no other place to let himself fall on.  
  
"Alright" Marc eventually hands his awaited coffee over and Valentino finds the mundane gesture oddly enjoyable, absurdly domestic, terms he never thought he could associate with the spaniard and yet, here they are, the banned possibilities and ideas that pop up out of nowhere, quickly boring a nagging hole somewhere beneath his guts. If only...  
  
"Got any plan for today?" He clears his throat, reluctantly dragging his visual focus off Marc's profound irises when it gets too much, eager to drift apart from the current moment.  
  
"I had. My brother and Jose had been harassing me with "entertaining plans" since I exited the hospital" The Honda rider's cackle has the brightening effect it often has, shaking some uneasiness off Valentino's lungs "That was, at least until I discovered that he had actually been plotting with you"  
  
The twinkle in his stare betray that he's not the slightlest bit bothered by his cospirancy episode with Alex's wary cooperation.  
  
"Would you rather be behind the fence of Rufea as an spectator while they have the time of their lifes doing motocross?" Valentino snorts rethorically, almost grimacing at the thought himself, assaulted by how incomprehensively easy it's for him to swap his own perspective to match Marc's "Because if that's so, I can wait here"  
  
"Actually, w-would you like to go for a walk? Not around the town, I mean, I know we can't. But what about the outskirts? A bit of sightseeing around the countryside?" The unexpected rambling is not something he could have anticipated, either, when it nearly falls off Marc's mouth. Especially not after seeing him in all his confident glory, like a switch being flicked. It's sort of fascinating, how easily the spaniard can seem a bunch of years younger withing milliseconds.  
  
"Okay" he sighs his acceptance, blinking repeatedly so that his eyes don't linger on Marc's lips when the champion wets them in that maddeningly distracting gesture of his "What are you looking at?"  
  
He questions directly under his breath, his throat itching and protesting after a gulp of caffeine that was definitely too hot and too long, powered by the need of taking his mind off Marc's piercing scrutiny.  
  
"I believe I've been promised breakfast" insolent cockiness and that distinctive guffaw only Marc's vocal chords can produce, engulf the last syllables of his clarification. _Right_. He should have imagined that the kid would retaliate as soon as he had the opportunity, that he would pay him back with the same coin at the littlest chance.  
  
"Bastard" Valentino hisses out of reflex, biting the inside of his cheek to stop the grin that it's struggling to break free, to pair up with Marc's beam. And for a second, his breath gets stuck at the base of his trachea while the ton of flashbacks that the expletive brings along, hit him. Back to that time when he would have never gotten tired of pronouncing his own personal endearment for the golden boy.  
  
"I miss two words there" The current champion murmurs, completing his thoughts. And the slight rise of his commissures reveals an earnest significance he definitely hadn't contemplated, but that it's more close to Valentino's intended meaning that he would have expected, revealing that they both understand perfectly the purpose the fond words have always had.  
  
It feels dangerously close to recovering a wasted piece of the past and Valentino must admit that, for once, Marc is right. Much to his dismay, after all that time and the ups and downs in between, he still is _his small fucking bastard._

  
  
~*~

  
  
The day ticks away much faster that Marc would have expected. Much faster than any other day of the previous week. And he acknowledges perfectly the reason behind that.  
  
Their walk has been like trekking through one of his childhood dreams, Marc had thought as they silently sauntered along one of the paths he and Alex take whenever they felt like cycling. The same one they have followed since they were kids. Plus, the additional presence of Alex's dog, whom he had dropped off after breakfast (throwing his brother a knowing look that Marc didn't know how to interpret) but there was no point on denying how Stich's playful barks and running around had remarkably eased the ambient and lifted his mood. Not to mention how many times he had internally melted and drooled over Valentino's natural ability to connect with animals. Although he really doubts anyone or anything would resist that maddening charisma.   
  
He doesn't know if it had been because of the situation, the company, the amount of time accumulated since he last strolled down the familiar walkway, or the lack of speed now that he hadn't been passing the trees and bushes by on the seat of his bicycle, but it had felt and looked rather different, as if that part of Cervera held something he had never noticed before. He can't remember the last time he had relished that much an activity that, for once, had nothing to do with engines, fuel or tyres.

 

~*~

  
  
They end up sprawled on the sofa after dinner (of which dishes he had gladly allowed the italian to do, this time, while he observed thoughtfully, sat on the counter)

One of his favourites, _Home Alone_ , plays in the large screen of his new TV, albeit he's barely paying any attention.

A disquet he wouldn't be able to find the reason for keeps on traveling up and down his veins, prompting his fingers to move in swift, uncontrollable movements over the brand new upholstery of the couch, not being able to detaching his gaze from Valentino for two minutes straight. The italian lies about a meter away from him, in all honesty, too far for Marc's taste, with one of his legs sprawled while his other folded knee supports the weigh of his wrist. His nape rests against the back of the couch and Marc feels utterly, helplessly ridiculous, with the same rush of awe he felt ages ago. At times, he's still not capable of processing that _he_ is really there. And Marc is not sure whether the Yamaha rider is really watching what's happening on the screen or purposefully ignoring his ephemeral glimpses, but whatever option it might be, there's no evicence.  
  
"Thanks" he blurts out of nowhere before he can do anything to get a hold of himself, finally voicing the gratitude that has been plaguing his mind during the entire afternoon. The italian's face shoots up in a brusque movement to meet his eyes, pinning him in place "I mean, for coming here"  
  
_For giving me the kind of company I craved the most when I was feeling like crap._  
  
The irony on the fact that only Vale could alleviate his inner uneasiness doesn't go unnoticed to him.  
  
"Don't mention it" he can clearly see the older's gulping after a few, eternal seconds, the way his blue eyes soften doing things to his pathetic heart he doesn't want even want to acknowledge "I owed you that"  
  
The italian's words release a hurricane of racing thoughts inside his head, obliging him to shut his eyelids completely for an instant. The wave of reality hits him briskly, the realization of what has taken them there is fully unleashed all of a sudden, no longer contained behind amusing teasing or playfull banters. And whether he likes it or not, Valentino is still very taken and beyond his reach, and as much as it has seemed like it these couple of days, they are definitely not on the same page. Not at all.

And perhaps it would be good to accept that once and for all. Address and accept the fact that whatever the italian champion's feels may be, are not enough to change their current circumstances. One of the most valuable lessons his career has taught him is to tolerate disappointments and make the most of what he _does_ have in his hands, that right now, is much more than he could have wished after Argentina, after Assen, after Sepang and all those fucked up days when he wanted to do nothing but curl up under his bed and hide from the world. And Alex was right, it's not like him to mourn over his frustatingly infuriating feelings. He clenches his jaw decidedly.  
  
"No, you didn't. Listen" Marc pauses his speech and the film simultaneously, the efficiency of the remote providing the silence he needs to continue, to finally put in order his messed up thoughts "That night in Valencia...I know I acted like the immature teenager I no longer am"  
  
His throat closes in a tight knot when the memory of the night in question pops up and replays in a windstorm of luxurious suits, tight black dresses, shinning trophies and toilet cubicles.  
  
"Marc-"  
  
"Let me finish, please" _Please, I need to do this_ "I'm aware of the fact that I shouldn't have reacted that way because I'm not in the position to demand anything. And I know that it's not that simple. So...sorry"  
  
It's painful to think about it now, to talk about it, but for the first time, he can see why it's not easy for Valentino to take all those insane risks he had unconciously pressed for. Now, with a cool head, he can assume that the older might not reciprocate the intensity of Marc's sentiments. As much as it scares him.  
  
The soundless atmosphere until the italian talks is nearly asphyxiating, never-ending.  
  
"Okay" the gleam on his blue orbs twitches with something unreadable under the dim light of the living room, enclosing them in a too intimate climate, while Marc's heart rate nearly makes it beat out of his chest "It's oka-"

_All the way, Marc._

"Sorry for not thinking straight on 2015" the name of that year still burns on his tongue when he finally decides to take the plunge, like a taboo, aware of the fact that he has just jumped off a cliff, activated a granade, like he never hesitates to do when it's just he and his Honda on track. He takes a deep breath to rip off and drag all the pent up shit out of his chest "For affecting the result of the championship even if that was never, ever my intention. I know it's a bit late for this now, but anyway. Sorry for ruining your race in Argentina, and for showing up drunk on your doorstep in Le Mans, for playing along the media's game in Misano and pressing for a handshake that was never meant to be exposed for them to see. And sorry for kissing you in Malaysia and for making such a hassle out of all this. I'm really sorry"  
  
His lungs sting when he introduces oxygen back on them after the non-stop string of errors he has been chaining since that awful season when time ran out and everything broke down. He nearly feels like panting after saying it, as if he had run a marathon, but much, much better. As cliché as it sounds, it really resembles liberating his shoulders from an incredibly heavy, crushing load.  
  
This time, the thick enviroment morphs into a more endurable quietnes, while he waits for a reaction he didn't know he needed this much, that he's dying to hear.   
  
"This is not only on you" Marc's former idol eventually breaks the silence with, his graceful movements as he changes his position to sit properly counteract the weakness palpable on his tone.  
  
He doesn't say anything more after that, neither of them do. But Marc doesn't want him to add anything else, either. Those eyes he knows so well convey it better than words would ever have. He can _sense_ Valentino apologizing back when his gaze gets that little bit more glassy, knocking all the air off Marc's lungs.

Cause it's as relieving as seeing the checkered flag, as if they had finally crossed the finish line of what had seemed an everlasting, endless race under the rain.  
  
He doesn't need Valentino to say it. They have never needed much words to understand each other, anyway.

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

"What?" Valentino's answer to the constant ringing of his phone resonates all over the guest room, harsher than he had initially intended it to be "It's almost one in the morning"  
  
"Look at that, you finally deign to answer the damn phone" his best friend's sneers at the other side of the line, blatantly ignoring his remark and Valentino can't stop his eyes from rolling, seeing Uccio's scolding expression as clearly as if he was standing right in front of him "That's all you have to say after being God knows where for two days?"  
  
He blinks a few times so that his eyes can get used to the lack of light as he makes it into the lent bedroom, with his mobile device glued to his ear and the fabric of his recently put on pyjama pants and old hoodie still cold against his skin. And he huffs loudly because, deep down, he knows Uccio is right. He should have suspected that a bunch of short texted monosyllables wouldn't be enough to satiate his friend's craving for information. He should have thought of a better excuse on the way here.  
  
"I told you I wanted a few days off" he sticks to his original explanation. It might be weak but changing it now would be beyond doubtful, for sure. In addition, sounding convincing it's way easier now that he's not looking at Uccio in the face "I'll be back tomorrow night"  
  
His throat becomes that bit more narrow after the confession, his chest tightening without warning, and to be honest, he's startled by how bad he wants that statement to be false. How much he wants to stay around, for a bit longer, at least. But he's aware that this safe hideout they have created these past days is unsustainable, that he can no longer delay anymore the responses he has to give and the matters he has to attend.  
  
"Alright" Uccio concedes, obviously, not very satisfied with the resolution (not that he would have been with anything that Valentino could come up with) but at this point, is about to call it a day, not willing to suck up reprimands that he shouldn't receive at the age of thirty nine "By the w-"  
  
"Ciao, I'll call you once I arrive" he ends the call as briskly as he started it, his mood considerably altered after the brief but demanding exchange of words.  
  
He lets his body seat down on the bed, pushing the phone as far from himself as he can, trying to regain some of the stability he has lost in the last minutes. However, reminiscing constantly the conversation he has had with Marc downstairs barely an hour ago doesn't help matters at all, either.  
  
A shiver runs down his spine when he thinks about that finally received apology he has been unconciously expecting for three years. Because Valentino is nothing if not prideful, he's well aware that is one of his worst defects, hence the warmth that Marc's regret has flooded him with. It's good to know that he hasn't been the only one internally taking the blame. And just like that, he had actually felt all the accumulated frustration and anger for that lost title evapotating like thin smoke, as if they had never been there. Perhaps it would have taken longer if it wasn't _Marc_ and Valentino didn't have an absurdly blinding soft spot for the kid since day one. As if he could deny him anything...  
  
But if he's sure of something, it is that he doesn't want Marc to occupy a post among his long list of feuds. Publicly speaking, he couldn't care less, but not personally. Not anymore. He's tired of that, purely exhausted.  
  
Whatever happened back then it's on the past now.  
  
Took him long enough to get that.  
  
His head jolts towards the door when a soft knock filters through his ears, half of Marc's body immediatly being outlined under the doorframe, his expression not something Valentino could classify easily.  
  
"Everything alright?" The spaniard mumbles, his voice unusually hoarse against his ears, already clad in the sleep attire he found the younger in that very morning and that will surely be Valentino's end. Because _come on, it's not even that warm to go around with nothing but sweatpants._  
  
Not that he's complaining, though.  
  
"Yeah, just a phone call" he coughs, intentionally omiting his best friend's name to avoid the wince, worried frown it would most likely create on Marc's face. However, he seems to forget who is he talking to, as if leaving a little, tiny detail out would fool him "What's wrong?"  
  
The younger spends some mute seconds standing under the threshold, his socket covered foot tapping the floor nervously, exposing his usual, natural state of overactivity.  
  
"I can't sleep" it gets pressed out grudgingly, as if Marc's mouth had pronounced it without his consent, as if it had been hard, bringing himself to recognize it.  
  
"And what do you want me to do about that?" Valentino lips part to let out a sigh, tilting his head out of mischievious, sheer curiosity. His stupid heart has already started to hammer irregularly against his chest while he struggles to not get his hopes up, regarding what Marc must be implying, or what sort of reaction he might want to coax out of Valentino.  
  
"Jerk" the world champion breathes with a roll of his eyes, evidently annoyed by Vale's feigned innocence "Do I have to hand over a formal invitation?"  
  
A light chuckle bubbles out of his chest at the sight of Marc's challenging look and arched eyebrows, some sort of strange, calm excitement pushing the remnants of anxiety away. Without a second thought, he gets back on his feet, following suit the spaniard's steps towards his bedroom.  
  
His steps falter slightly when he makes it past the bedroom door, taking in his surroundings as fast as he can, without much success due to the thick darkness that engulfs them right away. Nonetheless, he prefers it that way, he must add, Valentino would rather not facing the young rider's gaze now.  
  
It's the first time he gets to step inside Marc's new room and the impression it's exactly identical to the one he had when he entered the house.  
  
Still soulless.  
  
However, the faint, almost imperceptible scent he notices hovering all over the place is the exception. Unlike the other's rooms of the house, this one smells particularly good. His brain doesn't catch on where it comes from until he lets himself fall on the large bed and Marc immediatly lies beside him, letting his head casually rest against Valentino's chest.

He's sure now.

What's left of Marc's cologne it's what fills the air, without a doubt. He inhales profoundly until the young rider eventually stills, face up, presumably looking for the position that won't cause his shoulder any pain.  
  
They spend some minutes in complete, piercing silence, only mixed with the regular background sounds of their combined breathing.  
  
The pressure of half of Marc's body on his feels as good as it did in Japan, evoking plenty of recollections and Valentino's hand buries itself on his soft mope of dark hair as smoothly as it did that night, enjoying the closeness to the maximum.  
  
"I have to go back home in the morning" he eventually mutters hoarsely once he gets to drag the piece of information out of his tied in knots throat. It nearly sounds screeching against the walls, too raw to be thrown that brusquely into the dense, intimate silence.  
  
He remains motionless while the unpleasant sentence sinks in. Marc's position is not changed in the slightlest, whereas he can feel the younger's puffs of breath getting that bit more irregular when Valentino dares to start tracing purposeless patterns on his taut, bare arm with the tips of his fingers, adoring the string of goosebumps it leaves on its wake.  
  
"I know" comes out as Marc's response, nearly unaudible, little, in a volume Valentino wouldn't have thought the younger's voice capable of.  
  
He has never been locked up in a space with little light, but if it ever happened to him, Valentino suspects it would feel like he does at the moment, as if no matter what he wouldn't find the path to follow and get away from where he is stuck. That's why he squeezes Marc against him, the weight and heat of that body against his at the verge of being familiar, even if it's just the second time they approach the cuddling zone.  
  
He truly feels in a dead-end street. Especially if Marc revolves gracefully on his hold to look up at him with those bottomless, dark eyes that only fuel Vale's desire of sending it all to hell and shove his head straight into the wall.  
  
He only hopes that the _I wish I could stay longer_ and _I don't want to go_ reflect on his own pupils, given that his vocal chords wouldn't be able to produce a single decent sound now.  
  
Marc doesn't ask further, doesn't demand an explanation that Valentino already presumes he doesn't need. One of the downsides of being who they are is it that, no matter what, they cannot create the illusion of being people whose issues the world couldn't care less about, there will always be someone requesting their presence, location or whereabouts. And he does know that's one of the things Marc has been struggling with since he became more than just a boy who liked bikes.  
  
He absently goes over his mental calendar, desperately looking for the date that will allow him to be any close to the Honda rider, again.  
  
First week of February, Malaysia.  
  
_Always Malaysia._  
  
He can make it until then, even if right know his revolted stomach says otherwhise when the dim strike of moonlight that seeps through the blinds casts stunning shadows over the spaniard's features and his brain is suddenly stuck in a loop that consist of infuriatingly disarming details like Marc's eyelashes, the curve of his cheekbones or the shade his lips are tinted with.  
  
He lets his fingers go deep into the champion's soft strands, gulping when Marc leans against back against the touch right away.  
  
And Valentino wants, and wants and _wants_.  
  
But he can't. He _can't_. He _can't_. He _can't_.  
  
Even if he is dying to.  
  
He draws Marc closer, instead, not in the way he would have liked, but to carefully force him to lie back down over his chest, to avoid the tempting sight that has been testing his own limits since he put a foot on the house. Still, warmth travels up his limbs when nimble fingers seek his and the contact of their palms against each other's feels unfairly natural, effortlessly electrifying.  
  
Marc gets tangled in dreams before he does, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest gives it away, and still, Valentino would gladly spend the whole night awake, skimming his free hand over Marc's hair, letting the fascinating sight he has been granted access to, engrave on his memory permanently.

  
  
  
~*~

  
  
  
Marc has seriously weighed the option of pretending to be asleep several times during the whole morning, in a desperate attempt of holding Valentino back as much as possible. Nonetheless, the fucker finds the way to slide from under Marc's body with startling care, as if he was afraid of waking him up. The idea alone it's as heartwarming as nausiatingly suffocating. The bastard even has the nerve to drop an awfully tender kiss on his temple that thrills his whole system from the top of his head to the tip of his toes.  
  
_If he thinks he can leave without saying goodbye, he's gonna be quite disappointed._  
  
He curses his stupid self a thousand times for not having the guts to sneak into the italian's bed the previous day.  
  
Marc empties his lungs with a deep exhalation when he gathers enough strenght to push the covers away and sit up. He can already hear the shower running in the background by then, a few steps away, and his stomach stirs with some kind of inner urge he would rather avoid naming so early in the morning.  
  
He lets the fingers of his right hand leisurely brush his disastrous, bed hair while a profound yawn strechtes his lips, momentarily pluging his ears.  
  
It nearly takes him more than five minutes to get downstairs, a distance he would have probably covered in a matter of seconds if he didn't feel absolutely devoid of energy, regardless the full night of sleep. But now that his brain can do nothing but turn the thought of Valentino leaving over and over again, his mood has plummeted drastically.  
  
_It was good while it lasted, though._  
  
Every single one of his movements feels as heavy and mechanical as if executed in slow motion when he busies himself with the quite non-cooperative coffee machine.

He doesn't know if it's a consequence of his gloomy mind-set or unusually low level of positive vibes, but his shoulder aches today way more than it did yesterday. A sharp, spiked pain that seems to swirl and seep into his bones and his skin prickles under the greyish strap of the annoying, damn sling he's already sick of, tinting his flesh with a slightly rosy tone. As irritated as he's starting to feel.  
  
"Fuck!" The expletive gets out as a hiss, out of reflex, when the mug slips off his useless distracted grip, to disperse and spread in little pieces against the tiled floor, just by his feet, luckily, before it has the chance to get filled with anything. Still, the unpleasant sound of broken clay tears apart the fog his brain has been surrounded by since he woke up, replacing its numb state with enraged frustration.  
  
And Marc despises feeling anything close to anger. He's normally repulsed by the emotion, trying to keep it at bay, but his muscles tense on their own, at this point far from being under the control of his spent rational thinking.  
  
Because apparently the day is meant to be utter crap from the very beginning, isn't it? Because by all means, he can't even hold a fucking cup. Because, much to his dismay, there is nothing he can't do to change it. Because the craved, usual relief that riding a bike provides it's still maddeningly banned. And because _he's leaving_.  
  
Leaving. Leaving. Leaving. Leaving.  
  
And the hole that missing Valentino is going to produce; is already being carved underneath his ribcage. His chest tightens brusquely, his nerves heat up like a fuse igniting, and the outraged kick he delivers against one of the lower cabinet doors is entirely instictive, followed by a string of profanities and fueled by the inner, dangerous, overwhelming cocktail of racked up emotions that is starting to boil, as if about to explode any moment know, threatening to drag him along and drown him in a mass of scorching despair that is already climbling up his back.  
  
"Hey, what hap-" Valentino's well known accented voice, coming from the entrance of the kitchen, makes it into Marc's head with some trouble due to the deafening blood pumping against his eardrums.  
  
His eyelids drop, in the ineffectual attempt of calming down his agitated breathing, his racing heartbeat, his stare completely incapable of focusing on the italian's eyes, while a surprisingly numb pain travels up his foot. His right hand jerks up automatically, be it to rub his face in an exasperated gesture or an excuse to hide away from him. Right now he really could make it without hearing a single word.  
  
He doesn't even register the moment Valentino comes closer, not until that enticing scent of his engulfs him before he can voice a protest. That's when realizes, without any doubt, that no matter what, he would never get tired of hugging Vale. Ever.  
  
He has no idea if it's the light pressure on his nape, attracting him close enough to press his features against the older's neck (which smells unfairly good) the warmth radiating off his slender arms or the proximity of his chest beating against Marc's, but he can't compare it to anything he's accustomed to feel. Like that night he became world champion, it invites him to let go of everything that had been tying him so far, to get lost into the closeness and to evade from everything that surrounds them, and today, he feels as if he was going to fall apart in pieces the moment Valentino steps back. But it would be an unforgivable crime; not enjoying the sensation of his former idol embracing with thoroughly studied caution.  
  
He inspires deeply the fresch scent of shower gel, letting it flood his nose, allowing it to partially block the activity of his mind. He lets his own arm circling his narrow waist, hating the sling more than ever for not allowing him to do it with both limbs. Yet, he hugs Valentino Rossi with every he has, bringing along things that he shouldn't be thinking about at this hour in the morning.  
  
He simply tightens his grip to convey how grateful he is for his visit, for his mere presence there, that he doesn't want him to go. To convey how much he needed him here, now.  
  
Because they might have never been, are or will ever be a thing. Because maybe it won't evet be what his whole being is constantly shouting for. Because maybe it won't ever go anywhere at all and he's condemned to keep on yearning for more, perpetually at the verge of reaching what he truly wants without getting it. But having a tiny piece of Vale it's better than having nothing at all, that's for sure.  
  
He fights to keep inside the groan of disenchantment when the italian eventually unsticks his face from Marc's hair, and he does succeed at holdind back the potential sound, immediatly extinguished when the Yamaha rider's index finger settles under his chin to lift his head up.  
  
Valentino's eyes seem bluer than ever when the white light projected by the overcast sky, filtering through the window, hits them. A string of light freckles normally invisible stands out, spread over the italian's nose, every single, unimportant detail acquiring all of a sudden a new depth and Marc would be unable to drop his gaze again, now, even if he wanted to. Valentino's expression, on the other hand, is disturbingly neutral, unnaturally undecipherable, not evidencing the reason for his eyes to be that tempestous. If only he could deceive his own feels that well.  
  
"Okay?" Valentino breaths out quietly, his tone nothing to do with the light one that everyone is used to hear. And his mouth too close for Marc to think straight, he can't help skimming his tongue nervously over his own lips, out of reflex, feeling immediate heat traveling up his neck when the italian follows the movement visually. The distance between them seems even more narrow with each second that passes, not safe enough, daringly invitating.  
  
Challenging him to make the same tempting mistake again.  
  
What he wouldn't give to have the moral permission to close the damned gap between them, to follow his impulses without a second thought.  
  
The rhythm inside his head is still frantic, but he makes a superhuman effort to get out of the dangerous territory. He blinks, gulps and nods simultaneously, relief and discontent battling on his stomach when Valentino backs away just as swiftly, most likely sensing his pathetic strike of distress, but definitely not convinced with the answer.  
  
_Okay_. He nearly wants to snort out loud.  
  
He would be okay, in the end. Even if now he was everything but alright.

  
  
~*~

  
  
The day is unbearably cold. He can tell as soon as the first blow of air makes it under the doorframe.  
  
Marc waits by the door, wrapping himself further into his hoodie, his eyes nailed on the screen of his phone, which he's not paying the tiniest bit of attention, even if distracting himself was his initial purpose while Valentino makes it downstairs, with his travel bag already hanging from his shoulder. The way it makes his chest tighten is very different from the feeling the vision created a few days ago.  
  
He shoves the device inside the pocket of his joggers when neither of them can delay the moment longer. Saying goodbye on the hall will give them the privacy that the waiting street outside surely lacks. Better not risking it, even if it will steal a few minutes away from them.  
  
For the first time, Marc doesn't feel the usual, nagging need of breaking the silence when it descends between them. For once, the lack of conversation doesn't bother him. He's willing to wait until Valentino feels like it.  
  
"Enjoy your holidays, bambino" the nine times world champion dares to wish with that smirk, one of those lopsided grins that is always completed with a charmingly light tilt of his head, making his characteristic earring swing and Marc's insides melt.  
  
"Same" he comes to smile back, not capable of helping himself when it provokes a hopeless, fluttery sensation on the pit of his stomach. At least, until the realistic side of his brain appears all at once to crush it brutally, reminding him that nothing has changed, in fact, and it's as if his mind was slowly beginning to process that it never would. It hit that morning like a slap on the face, as violent as the sound of the cup shattering against the ground. In that very moment he promises to his inner self that he will try to make the most of what's left of the winter break. That he will try to forget for a few weeks. He's already sick of hoping and waiting. He has always hated waiting.  
  
_Except when it comes to Valentino, apparently._  
  
"Take care, ok?" A light brush of their hands is enough for Marc's defences to get hazardously vulnerable again, for his walls to shake, especially if the older's voice sounds that strained when their gazes make contact, the lingering connection surely extending for more seconds than necessary. For longer than what would have been acceptable for two people that, supposedly, have nothing going on.  
  
A wry grimace nearly takes over Marc's expression, even though if this time, he refuses to give a further thought to the tremendous irony, the bad joke they have ended up becoming.  
  
He leans against the doorframe, clasping the surface with his right hand to support himself in case his knees decide to give up, because seeing Valentino getting away towards the car is even harder than he initially thought it would be. And he has to make an effort to repress the need of running after the italian, to drag him back inside, to prevent him from leaving just yet.  
  
He spends a good amount of time nailed on the same spot. Maybe minutes or hours, he wouldn't be able to tell, even when the string of sound that the engine leaves behind has dissapeared, and Valentino along with it.

  
  
~*~

  
  
"Want me to pick you up?" Alex's wary tone filters perfectly through the speaker of his phone, and even though Marc can't physically see him at the moment, he can imagine the cautious look on his brother's face, as if he was testing the waters when it comes to his mood.  
  
He sighs, his eyes still unwaveringly fixed on the ceiling of his bedroom. He nips at his bottom lip, comtemplating over the question. The answer comes quickly, faster than he would have expected. He could definitely use a distraction right now.  
  
"Give me half an hour" he concedes weakly, the reply uttered between sighs as he rolls off the bed, already moving towards the wardrobe.  
  
"See you in a bit" Alex agrees way too enthusiastically and Marc can almost see him beaming at the other end of the line. He had promised himself he would enjoy the rest of the break to the fullest, hadn't he? It was pointless to mourn over something that didn't exist, in the first place. That would never be possible.  
  
His available fingers rummage nimbly through the stack of folded hoodies and sweaters while he makes a quick mental selection of those ones he wants to bring along. The light frown of concentration deepens the more he searches for one of his favourites, nowhere to be seen. However, the thought nearly dissipates completely when he gets a hold of a familiar piece of clothing that he hasn't forgotten. That he could never forget. He spends a few seconds simply touching it before he gathers the courage to snatch it off the base of the pile.  
  
He doesn't know how should he feel like at the sight of the hoodie with the VR46 initials staring right back at him, as if daring Marc to show off the smile that he's trying so bad to suppress.  
  
And he does, while he snaps a quick pic to accompany the _Care to explain?_  that he types straightaway to the only plausible responsible for this.

  
  
~*~

  
  
The answer doesn't come until a few hours later, betrayed by the buzzing of his phone inside his pocket as he leans on the wooden fence of the Motocross track, interrupting abruptly his analysis of Alex's output.  
  
_Swapped it for yours, hope you don't mind._  
  
"Hey, where does the lovestruck smile come from?" Jose nudges him unexpectedly with a sly smirk taking over his dirt covered features, nearly prompting him to drop the device into the damp mud.  
  
"It's nothing" and Marc can do nothing but shrug, putting the screen away from sight as quickly as his arm allows him to, because, in all honesty, at this point he has given up on trying to figure out what could be going on between them, what that gesture could mean, why his chest feels as if about to explode any moment now at the thought alone of Valentino with one of his own garments.  
  
Moreover, he would be lying if he said he hasn't decided what piece of clothing is he going to sleep wrapped in for the next weeks, himself.  
  
"If you say so" his assistant slash friend pats the back of his neck fondly, wearing a skeptical expression that gives away perfectly that he's not the slightlest bit fooled, but Marc could never grateful enough when he doesn't push it, doesn't ask anything else, letting go of the matter with a light chuckle.  
  
Maybe he should let go of it for a couple of days, too.  
  
_One month and a half. One month and a half._  
  
He can do it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for not giving up on this one yet. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Itshighlightlover on tumblr, in case you want to drop by. Love you♥️


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